#but with makeup and a wig without my glasses so- not really recognizable

[diseaseriddencube]

nvm I do not regret this at all

[cadavercowboy]

You'll Ache To Know My Name

Pairing: Art The Clown x Reader

Summary: Your Halloween night is about to take the spookiest turn of all: having an interaction with a man. Lucky for you, along comes a mysterious clown who won't stand for some loser preying on an innocent, unsuspecting woman. Because that's his job.

Word Count: 11.1k+

Warnings: Explicit content (18+ only). Attempted sexual assault. Violence. Blood. Needles. Drugging. Kidnapping. Torture & dismemberment. Murder. Dubious consent. Oral sex. Overstimulation. Blood kink. Spit kink. Forced orgasm. Fingering. Unprotected sex. Creampie.

A/N: Bad news for everyone...I'm not afraid to admit how badly I wanna fuck the circus boy. Haven't been able to see the third film yet, so I am lashing out in anger by writing this. :) Happy day after Halloweenie!

(Worth noting that this deviates pretty significantly from my personal perception of Art's character (David himself said that he sees him as an asexual creature and unfortunately, I agree :-( but a girl can dream) so this was really just an exercise in self-indulgence with a heaping side of very sick delusion! Hope you enjoy and if not...don't care, didn't ask xoxo)

The steel door slams shut behind you and the cool night air engulfs your overheated skin, prompting you to throw your head back and breathe a sigh of relief. Your shoulders finally fall from where they had spent all night practically tucked up next to your ears so that you can stretch the tight muscles of your neck. Even the glass and a half of straight liquor hadn’t been enough to ease the stress of being packed like a sardine into a hot room full of drunken, rowdy people. 

Your costume — a torn and tattered white slip, hardly reminiscent of the gown worn by Elsa Lanchester in the original Bride Of Frankenstein film — had been chosen last-minute, without comfort in mind. It itches now and clings annoyingly to your damp skin. The hem falls at your knee and the bust is held up with only two thick straps. A cheap, two-toned wig drapes over your scalp and though the long, wavy strands aren’t technically accurate, they’ve gotten the job done. With some decent makeup and a few neat sutures drawn across your throat in eyeliner, you’ve managed enough hallmarks of the iconic character for your costume to be recognizable.

The moon is high and full above you, casting an appropriately spooky glow on the shiny synthetic fabric of your dress. You yank the wig from your head — sick of the way the tight elastic band is beginning to give you a headache — and chuckle to yourself, hoping the hazy beams of moonlight won’t bring a beastly werewolf across your path. Your shoes thud with tired steps down the vacant sidewalk and you’re feeling exactly like the doctor’s stitched-up and reanimated sweetheart. The Halloween party was admittedly fun, but you’re ready to get home and climb into your cozy bed.

A breeze blows, gusting past your bare limbs and sending a slight chill through your body. All the sweat drying on your skin makes the wind feel colder than it actually is. You wrap your arms around your middle and check both ways before crossing an empty intersection. The city street is uneven beneath your feet and you’ve only just stepped onto the adjacent curb when the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. At first, you pay it no mind, but when the muffled sound of steady footfalls emerges from behind, you instinctively turn your head.

Over your shoulder and a short distance away, you spot a man strolling down the sidewalk. His hands are tucked casually into the pockets of a brown leather jacket, however his eyes are pinpointed directly on you. Goosebumps raise across your flesh, having little to do with the night’s dropping temperature. Hoping to avoid an unwanted interaction, you duck your head and pick up the pace, your calves burning as you stride with purpose. 

“Hey, Frankie!” the man calls.

You’re unsure how he’s able to discern your spooky get-up in the dark, wondering if perhaps he recognizes you from the party. He certainly isn’t the hypothetical werewolf you were afraid of, but undoubtedly a predator just the same. You steadfastly ignore him and keep your steps swift in the hopes that he takes the hint. Much to your disappointment, he does not. Dread settles low in your belly; not borne of fear, but rather disgust. His voice is much closer when he yells again which — paired with what he believes to be a clever come-on — raises your hackles and puts you on the defensive.

“Wanna come tighten my nuts and bolts, baby?”

Rolling your eyes, you begrudgingly halt and set your teeth on edge, prepared to use your bitchiest voice to correct the idiot and let him know it was actually Frankenstein's monster who sported steel bolts on the sides of his neck, not his bride. But when you wheel around and come face to face with the man, the words die in your throat. More specifically, they’re caught behind your bared teeth when the pig has the audacity to grab hold of your backside to admire your pretty dress and ponder what material it’s made from.

“Get the fuck off me!” you snarl in a voice that sounds foreign to your own ears.

Utilizing the only mechanism of defense you currently possess, you whip your wig in his direction. The acrylic strands snap harshly across his face and while the accompanying utterance of pain is satisfying, you’ve clearly angered him. He grabs ahold of your other arm and twists it painfully behind your back. You writhe in his grasp and try to reach around to claw at him, but the damned wig is tangled in the stupid Victorian-style ring you’re wearing and your fingers are buried uselessly within the plasticky tresses as he shoves you further down the sidewalk.

“Stupid bitch,” he barks, spittle flying from his lips as you struggle against one another. “Learn to take a compliment.”

Even with your feet planted, you fail to impede his progress as the man wrangles your body towards the mouth of a dark alley. Though the streets are woefully empty this time of night, there’s at least a chance that someone may see or hear you; if he maneuvers you into the shadows, you’re screwed. 

The pair of you stumble between two buildings, the massive structures blocking the glow of the moon and blanketing you in disorienting darkness. He continues dragging you along until the alley splits into an open area which contains a rancid-smelling dumpster and several piles of discarded rubbish. You’re slammed painfully into a wall moments before a grimy hand crawls its way up your dress and between your thighs. 

“Come on. With an outfit like this, you’re pretty much asking for it.”

Just like that, you’re seething. Your rage and fear meld into one powerful amalgamation of force and you manage to twist hard enough to knock you both off balance. You come down hard into a mountain of garbage and your combined weight slams into a half-rotted wooden pallet; its slats are splintered and it boasts several exposed nails. One nail in particular — bent at a rather unfortunate angle — catches your arm as you fall and you can feel the sharp point split your skin from your wrist all the way to your elbow. Blood spills from the wound almost immediately, though the searing pain is of little consequence when your assailant promptly locks both of his hands around your throat, effectively cutting off your airway.     

Choking and spluttering as you fight for breath, you kick uselessly at the heaviness of the violent man on top of you. He has you pinned to the ground in such a way that your legs can gain no purchase to get him off. Your eyes feel ready to burst out of your skull and your hands scramble across the buttery leather encasing arms which vibrate with exertion as he ventures to squeeze the life out of you.

When your vision begins to tunnel, you fling your arms out to the sides in search of something you can grab. Your nails scrape painfully along the concrete until you’re sure your fingertips are rubbed raw and bleeding. And finally you feel it: a short but heavy chunk of the broken pallet. The shards of wood digging into your palm — rendered slippery from the spillage of your own blood — go unnoticed as you use your waning strength to whack your attacker across the head with it. He instantly flops to the side and cradles his wounded head as you suck in a gloriously deep breath.

You roll over with a gasp and a cough, saliva dripping freely from your parted lips. There is only a brief moment of reprieve before you force yourself up onto your knees and ignore your own spinning head as you repeatedly bring the piece of wood down on the man curled up beside you. The ruthless blows have the intended effect and his movement ceases. Two crooked nails protrude from the end of your makeshift weapon and you aim them at the center of his body until blood seeps from under the material of his jacket and begins to pool beneath his immobile form. With a sort of strangled battle cry, you climb to your feet and hit him one last time for good measure.

Beads of sweat roll from your hairline down your temples and your shaking hands release their hold on what remains of the now-bloodied piece of wood. It falls to the ground with a clatter. Sparing a glance at yourself, you overlook the red and black stains that have ruined your disheveled dress to inspect the extent of the injury to your arm. You grimace as blood continues to seep from the rather serious wound. It’s definitely going to need stitches.

You begin to look around for your phone. You dropped it during the tussle and you nearly cry when you eventually spot it…shattered, just a few feet away. A hospital is definitely your first priority, but without the aid of your phone, you aren’t quite sure how to navigate there from here. 

The night is silent save for the rush of stuttered wheezes that still rip from your burning lungs. You pause, holding your breath for a second to swallow deeply when you think you hear something. A shuffling…a rustling of plastic, perhaps. In your heightened state, you shift with the speed of hunted prey; eyes peeled, knees bent and ready to fight or flee. Glancing towards the source of the noise, you squint at the alley you were forced down earlier.

“Oh, what the fuck?”

You blurt the words without thinking, but the unexpected sight rids you of any ability to hold your tongue. There — tucked safely beneath the cover of shadow — stands a very tall man. Or rather, a clown. At least you think that’s what it is. Your fists clench uneasily at your sides and the tensing of the muscles makes your wounded arm sing with pain.

In the darkness, you can only make out the parts of his costume which are white: a long leg opposite an equally lengthy arm, a frilly collar, silky hood, and a heavily painted face. He takes a single step closer, as if testing to see whether you’ll run from him. 

The moonlight paints a slightly clearer picture of his appearance here. Both his eyes and mouth are encircled with thick blobs of black face paint and a pair of thin eyebrows arch unnaturally high over an exceedingly piercing stare. His ebony lips form a distinct ring of shock and you realize that he’s probably just seen your whole ordeal. Or at least the parts that made you look bad. 

A tiny, jauntily-tilted top hat adds an oddly comical touch to his ensemble. In his left hand he holds a crinkling black trash bag that looks to be filled to the brim with several hefty objects. He raises his right hand and wiggles his fingers with a delicate and playful wave, the long digits encased in a pair of fingerless gloves that may have been white once-upon-a-time.

You naively assume the mysterious clown poses no threat, simply regarding him as an innocent Halloween reveler who happened to stumble upon a terrible situation. Right now, your only fear is that he’s witnessed you beating a man — possibly to death — and has no context as to why. Gesturing to the motionless pile of flesh behind you, you deem it necessary to explain yourself.

“This guy attacked me,” you breathe, pausing to lick your chapped lips. “I was defending myself.”

The clown remains unmoving and silent, giving no indication that he’s even heard what you said. He merely stares, visage still awash with surprise. Uneasy, you shift your weight and raise your eyebrows expectantly in the hopes of prompting a response. 

Nothing. 

You aren’t lying about what happened, but you have to admit…you kind of sound like you are. You try again. 

“I…I don’t know if he’s dead,” you admit warily. “He really would’ve hurt me if I didn’t stop him, so he was kind of asking for it.”

A dry chuckle follows the comment and you cringe outwardly at your poorly-timed humor. While you’re busy kicking yourself, the clown continues to do nothing but glare at you. He’s so static, you might be convinced he were a statue had you not seen him move moments ago. Unsure what else to do, you make one last attempt to earn a response from the costumed man. You point uselessly to the ground where your destroyed cell phone sits even though you already know the clown isn’t going to look.

“Could you maybe call the police for me?” you implore, hoping your willingness to contact the authorities will sway his opinion on whether or not you’re a cold-blooded murderer.

Still, he does not move. Or speak. He doesn’t so much as acknowledge you. Your patience has all but vanished at this point and your shoulders sag, a disgruntled scoff escaping your throat. Just your luck that you run into two total freaks in the same night. 

“Gotta be kidding me,” you murmur under your breath. 

Having had enough of this strange game, you square your shoulders and bravely cross the short distance between you and the creepy clown. You plan to slip past him, leaving both him and your would-be killer to figure things out for themselves, but the silent specter has other ideas. 

When you’re only a few feet away, he releases his trash bag and it crashes to the ground with a deafening, metallic resonance. You stop at once and your eyes drop to the discarded bag before glancing back at the previously stupefied face where you’re now met with a gleaming smile that you can only describe as… wrong. 

The clown’s grin shines with moisture and his teeth seem too large for his mouth. Something about the almost inhuman way his muscles contort to display every inch of his smile unnerves you, nearly as much as the length of time he manages to maintain the severe gesture. You swallow thickly and your nostrils flare with the stirrings of distress. The clown waggles his thin eyebrows tauntingly in response. It’s clear to you that this weirdo is looking to garner some sort of reaction of fear and you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you adopt a bored expression and cross your arms over your chest, being careful not to aggravate your wounded arm. 

Your choices are limited and admittedly risky. Either you push past the clown or take the chance of turning your back on him in search of another way out of the alley. Neither option appeals to you very much. Before you can decide, he finally moves. 

Stomping one over-sized shoe on the ground, the clown bends at the waist and flings both arms up and out to feign a lunge in your direction. It doesn’t even make you flinch which prompts his limbs to drop ever so slowly back down to his sides. You swear you can see his expression pinch slightly in frustration. He studies you for a moment, then his smile deepens as he tucks his chin to his chest so he can peer at you from beneath his brow. 

The gesture is eerie, but your apprehension worsens when he suddenly and inexplicably returns to his full height and the corners of his mouth fall slack. His grin rapidly vanishes, though his long teeth are still partially visible. This is followed shortly by the drooping of his black-painted eyelids. For some reason, his lifeless expression is what finally awakens a real sense of fear in you and a chill begins to seep into your body.

Uneasiness runs rampant through you, dissipating only a little once you realize that the clown’s deadened green eyes aren’t fixated on you. His gaze trails lazily towards something over your shoulder. Something that leaves him unquestionably displeased. Daring to turn your back on the clown, you peer behind you to find your attacker miraculously stumbling to his feet. Although his face is bloodied and beginning to swell, you can tell that his eyes are focused on you. He staggers and groans; struggling, but clearly determined to reach you.

You look frantically along the ground, yet again in a desperate search for something to defend yourself with. The piece of wood you dropped earlier is too far away to grab before you’re back in his clutches, but it's your only hope now that you're sandwiched between a wannabe rapist and some sort of mute psycho.

To your relief, your attacker stumbles and braces himself against the brick exterior of one of the buildings, stopping to catch his breath before he’s able to resume his pathetic journey to exact revenge. That feeling of relief is short lived as a loud, cartoonish honk bursts through the air and you nearly leap out of your skin. You whirl around to find the clown standing so close to you that your bare arm brushes the silky fabric of his monochromatic costume. A smear of your crimson blood now stains the lighter half of his jumpsuit. 

His nearness prompts your eyes to widen in surprise and you inhale sharply. The clown has finally elicited a reaction and by all appearances, this thrills him. He jumps up and down where he stands, his blackened eyes crinkling with unbridled glee. His toothy grin is back, showcasing a sheen of saliva as his lips split open at an unnatural width to accommodate another terrifying smile. 

With fists raised and shaking victoriously, he honks his bicycle horn several more times, then stuffs the prop into a hidden pocket. Anxiety rattles your bones when the clown throws his head back and practically unhinges his jaw to unleash a completely noiseless laugh. The entirety of his massive frame quakes, quivering with such believable intensity that you cannot fathom how he isn’t actually making a sound.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you squawk with annoyance, putting an abrupt end to the clown’s celebration.

His head tips forward slowly, angled to stare you down as his smile falters a bit. But he recovers quickly, raising his eyebrows close to where his hairline should be while he holds up a single finger, beseeching from you a moment of patience. Unbelievably, he proceeds to delve into a classic magic trick, the kind you’d see performed by an amateur entertainer at a child’s birthday party. 

The clown’s gloved hands wave and twirl dramatically in front of your face as a sort of distraction. You do your best not to flinch when he reaches next to your head without warning. As expected, he reveals a shiny quarter, wanting you to believe he’s pulled the coin from behind your ear. He pinches the bit of silver between two fingers and offers it to you with a fluid sweep of his other hand and an encouraging smile as if presenting something of great value. Playing along, you laugh mirthlessly and hope the bemused set of your mouth resembles a smile.

“Yeah, that’s great buddy,” you say through gritted teeth, accepting the proffered quarter. “Thanks.”

Taking the coin in hand, you move to step around the clown, but he denies you. He repositions himself with alarming speed and blocks your path with his lanky frame, suddenly fashioning his own mouth into a frown. The odd shape of the grease paint surrounding his lips pulls down into a sort of melting effect. Contrarily, the bright rings of green circling his dark pupils are pure ice. Something in his harsh expression serves as a warning, one which requires no words. Still not permitting your exit, the clown holds his hand up with his palm facing you and continues to keep you an unwilling, captive audience.

Just like before, he repeats his same trick. Only now he reveals what appears to be a thin plastic tube. By the time you notice that there’s a sharp needle affixed to the end of the syringe, the steel tip is already piercing through your skin. He aims for the space just above your collarbone, where your neck and shoulder meet. You cry out and he grins wickedly. The force he uses to jab the needle in would have been painful enough on its own, but the sensitive spot he chose as a target makes it all the more agonizing and your knees threaten to give out.

In your peripheral, you watch him depress the plunger with slow and dramatic flare. His mouth is molded into another perfect circle of facetious shock as the liquid invades your system. Your ears ring while fear pumps white-hot adrenaline through your veins alongside whatever concoction had been forced from the syringe. You stumble backwards, wanting to put some distance between yourself and this maniac. There’s no longer a worry about the dangerous offender still lurking behind you because you’d been afraid of the wrong man all along.

The clown watches, alight with unadulterated joy. He offers a happy and child-like wave goodbye when your balance starts to waver. His fingers flap clumsily with the level of excitement he displays. Your neck burns and you’re feeling nauseous; sweating yet shivering as your limbs grow heavy. 

Little black dots fill your vision and your eyes water, then begin to cross…or slip shut, you really can’t tell. There’s a loud whooshing and suddenly you can’t differentiate up from down, only that your body is swaying, tipping, tumbling. The last thing you register is the tiny ping of the quarter falling from your clammy palm and ricocheting off the ground. A slur of panicked nonsense drags over your sluggish tongue seconds before your world goes black.

If eyelids could be made of lead, you’re certain yours must be. As your body graciously allows you to ease back into consciousness, you struggle for several long minutes before you’re actually able to see. What you’re met with is a blinding halo from the single bulb situated directly above you. Blinking rapidly to adjust to the brightness, you try to pinpoint any indication as to where you are. You even wrack your fuzzy brain trying to remember anything from tonight, to no avail.

There’s a horribly uncomfortable surface supporting your body, rock hard and covered in some sort of sandy grit. A pervasive odor of rust and wood assaults your senses, mingling with the scent of something old and earthen. The aroma reminds you of an antique toolbox your father kept in the musty basement of your childhood home. Somehow the notion of being there momentarily frightens you more than any other possible reality. 

You’re still feeling a little too weak to sit up just yet, but you do manage to lift an arm in order to press a palm to your aching forehead. The movement prompts an unexpected pressure, a sort of tight pulling along your flesh. It turns your stomach and you begin to feel hot and queasy. Your vision blurs for a moment and once that passes, you hold your arm up and turn it over to determine the cause of the sensation. 

A long line of stitches run the length of your wound. The sutures are done in black thread that hardly seems up to medical standards and their pattern is rudimentary at best. Like something straight out of a horror movie, the edges of your wound are still caked in dried, coagulated blood. Obviously left unsterilized, the flesh is jagged, puffy, and sore. You shudder to think what kind of an infection you’re going to end up with.

The sound of metal clanging makes you jump, drawing you from the observation of your injury. Not being able to see your surroundings is making you nervous so you force your lethargic body to cooperate. First you plant your elbows, then carefully use your forearms and palms to ease yourself into an upright position, doing your best to keep your weight off of your ailing limb. 

You experience the worst headrush of your life, but your equilibrium adjusts quickly. Looking down, you find yourself still clothed in your bridal gown, although your shoes are mysteriously missing. You’re sprawled across what looks to be a large wood-topped workbench. With the glaring light overhead, it feels more like a surgical table. The irony is not lost on you.

Directly to your right, there’s another workbench. This one is made of steel. Your vision hones in on a large mass and suddenly the night’s events come rushing back all at once.

Over the workbench hunches the sleek back of the taciturn clown, twiddling with the rusted teeth of an old hacksaw. Moving as gently as you can, you quietly adjust your position and throw your legs over the edge of the table, letting them dangle limply as you observe him. 

As far as you can tell, there’s only one door out of the dimly-lit dungeon, but your captor is sure to spot you in his peripheral if you try. You watch and wait, hoping he’ll turn away and allow you a chance at escape.

The clown must sense your gaze because he freezes, stands up straight, then — with a remarkable lack of speed — spins his towering body to face in your direction. Although you had been expecting it, the presence of his startling grin still makes your throat tighten with anxiety.

“Where am I? What do you want from me?”

It’s stupid to ask. You know he isn’t going to answer. At least this time he bothers to acknowledge you. He slowly creeps his way over with the tool in hand, walking on tiptoes as if sneaking around and hiding from someone or something when it is he who is the monster. He smells of something familiar and sugary, a scent so offensively sweet it actually makes you gag. The silk of his costume brushes against the front of your legs and your body goes stiff with trepidation.

Your breath catches as a single finger traces the drawn-on stitches that transect your throat. He holds the saw up, pushing it close to your neck and sliding it back and forth, by all accounts interested in making the wounds very real. Concern furrows your brow and the display of fear must please him because he actually takes pity on you. He shakes his head with a mischievous smile and dismissively waves you away to let you know he’s only kidding. 

The clown twists his body to put the hacksaw on the workbench, peeking back to make sure you’re watching. He lays it down with purposeful movements, then indicates that’s where it will stay. For now, anyway. 

A frightened whimper nearly slips free when the clown quickly lifts a gloved hand to push two fingertips against your wrinkled forehead before jokingly smoothing out the deep lines forged by your distress. He points at you and mimes another one of his hearty laughs, but that only makes you frown more; doing very little to actually assuage your growing fear. 

Seeming displeased with your lack of amusement, the clown lifts his other hand to join the first. Astoundingly, he uses a finger from each hand and shoves them quite impolitely into the corners of your mouth. You pull back in surprise, but he simply follows, forcing the long digits deeper until he’s touching your teeth. He doesn’t relent until you stop fighting the invasion. When you do, he wrenches his fingers upwards, forcing your mouth into the shape of a painfully exaggerated smile.

The clown pins you in place with an unflinching stare, his head tilting sharply to the side with intrigue. His face lacks any notable signs of emotion and you look on in astonishment, unable to do anything except endure his assault. He senses your resignation — insignificant as it may be — and the corners of his own mouth lift, gradually revealing more and more of his teeth until even his gums are on full display.

When he finally slips his fingers out of your mouth, you assist in their exit by pushing the offending digits away with your tongue and spluttering loudly. This catches his attention and the clown’s green eyes widen with interest. Appearing to ape your previous action, he relaxes his jaw and sticks his tongue out at you. The fleshy pinkness of the muscle is a stark contrast to the ink-like abyss of his painted mouth. He allows the muscle to roll over his teeth where its moistened tip nearly meets the point of his chin before it’s snatched back into the recesses of his maw. Then he points at you.

You can only shake your head in confusion, not quite understanding what it is he’s attempting to communicate. Executing a comical roll of his frigid eyes, the clown lifts and drops his angular shoulders with a soundless sigh of frustration then repeats the motion. Tongue flopping from his mouth and painted brows lifting with encouragement, his hands splay in a gesture of presentation that says ‘See? Like this.’

Now he’s pointing to himself with both hands before displaying two open palms in your direction while nodding in invitation. He’s asking you to mimic him. You don’t want to, but you have a feeling refusal is not an option so you do as he asks, albeit with some hesitation. Lips quiver as they peel apart to make way for your tongue which slips out with jerky, jittery slowness. It leaves you feeling quite foolish, sitting there with your mouth agape and tongue twitching while a six foot clown grins and applauds gleefully in celebration. 

When you try to close your mouth, he stops you. A falling smile and a single loud clap directly in front of your face works just as effectively as any shouted words would have. Your eyes meet his and he holds up a finger, indicating you should wait; remaining exactly as you are while he decides what bizarre performance to put on next. You’re glad your mouth has gone dry so you don’t drool all over yourself and further add to your indignity. 

He presses his thumbs to his temples and opens his hands up like a pair of moose antlers, wiggling his fingers playfully and sticking his tongue out once more. Just like you thought he would, the clown points to you and widens his eyes like an excited child waiting for you to play his game. You try to hide your huff of annoyance, but do as you’ve been directed.

This time, there’s no warning. You don’t even see it coming. Taking advantage of your open mouth and your distracted state, the clown shoves the two middle fingers of his left hand past your teeth. Although you weren’t prepared, he is. His other hand snaps forward to cradle the base of your skull when your head predictably rears back, ensuring you cannot escape his delving fingers. You try to move your face from side to side and relieve yourself of the pressure from the invasive digits, but he holds fast and renders you immobile. 

Saliva floods your mouth as the tips of his fingers reach deep enough to brush the back of your throat. You gag and cough until your eyes begin to water, but he does not let up. Instead, he adds the rest of his fingers so they can twist this way and that; pinching, massaging, and pressing against the textured surface of your tongue. It reminds you of the way someone reaches in to remove the innards when gutting a fish. 

His skin is salty, juxtaposed by the bitter, metallic flavor of oxidized blood you can taste as the edges of his fingerless gloves glide over your tongue and soak up your spit. Tears spill down your cheeks and you fight to breathe, feeling like you’re choking on his hand. No matter how hard you cling to and pull at his skinny wrist, you’re unable to extract him from your mouth. You whimper and start to heave more forcefully until mucus ejects from your nose. 

All at once, he stops. Your throat emits an awful, strangled sound when he removes his fingers and abruptly turns away from you, shaking his hand and flinging a glob of saliva towards the floor as he does. It takes a moment for you to catch your breath and compose yourself while you wipe the moisture from your face, blinking rapidly until the tears stop falling from your lashes. When you look up, you see the reason for the interruption.

At the far corner of the room is a folding chair, its steel legs bent and misshapen. In it sits a face that you wouldn’t exactly call familiar, but you recognize it nonetheless. The man who attacked you earlier shifts and groans, his head lolling from side to side as he tries to get his bearings. You have no idea how the clown heard the man’s movements over your choking and whimpering, but you’re grateful for the distraction. His attention is now centered wholly on the man in the chair, clad only in a pair of checkered boxer shorts and with his arms bound behind him. His torso is riddled with little oozing puncture wounds and you can’t help feeling a twinge of pride. 

You watch apprehensively as the clown picks up a bundle of material from the workbench and shakes it out to reveal a frilly, floral-patterned apron which he promptly drops over his head and fastens behind his back. The man watches this too, slowly piecing together what he’s seeing. Dread colors his features when he takes note of his state of undress and his imprisoned limbs. His eyes volley from the figure towering over him to you, then back again to the clown who bends to dig through a wooden crate full of more tools.

“So what, you two freaks know each other or something?” he questions, panic evident in his shaky tone though he tries poorly to disguise it.

He receives no answer, but the tall clown — having evidently found whatever he was searching for — straightens and peeks over his shoulder at you. Only the upper half of his face is visible when he waggles his brows in response to the man’s inquiry, leaving you clueless as to what it’s supposed to mean.

Now wielding some sort of object, the clown approaches the trapped man with slow and sure steps. He crouches before him and presents the object to the man. You can only imagine the smile he wears. 

In his hand, he holds a terribly rusted pizza cutter. The clown flicks the wheel as if hoping it will glide smoothly, but it doesn’t budge. Deflating only slightly, he tries again using more force, but the pizza cutter only stutters with a grinding sound. He mimes a disappointed sigh and shakes his head, then shrugs his shoulders with acceptance, apparently deeming the utensil useful enough.

Your fingers wrap with crushing force around the edge of the table you sit upon as you brace yourself for whatever is about to occur. Though the unsuspecting man seems equally as dubious, nothing could prepare either of you for what happens next. The clown moves with viper-like speed and precision, snatching the man’s underwear and yanking them down just far enough to reveal his crotch. 

“Wh-what the fuck?” he yells, rattling the chair as he squirms wildly. “Hey man, what the hell are you doing?!”

The rising pitch in his voice indicates he already knows the answer. While the sizable build of the clown shields most of your view, your imagination fills in the blanks vividly enough. Your ears ring with the volume of the man’s ragged screams. 

A squish of flesh and the unmistakable splatter of dripping blood intersperse his cries and you slam your eyes shut as though that will block the awful sounds out. It’s the worst limb for a man to lose and there’s no doubt the dull condition of the clown’s chosen tool is making this experience all the more harrowing. Its lack of sharpness certainly lends to the amount of time the clown spends sawing through the man’s appendage.

From your vantage point, you cannot see the detached body part when the clown places it on the workbench, though that may be due to the fact that you’re preoccupied watching him lift the long cylinder of a propane blowtorch. He fiddles with the nozzle for a moment before rearing back and snapping his fingers like he’s just had an epiphany. Virtually from thin air, he procures a pair of flower-shaped sunglasses and perches them delicately upon his hooked nose. The torch ignites with a whoosh and the hiss of blazing fire does little to disguise the man’s blood-curdling scream as the clown touches flame to flesh in order to cauterize the leaking wound.

When he’s finished, the clown extinguishes the torch and tosses the tank aside with a resounding bang. His impromptu eye protection follows. Turning to you, he swipes the back of his hand across his forehead and flicks away some imaginary sweat before doing a comical imitation of an exhausted exhalation.

By now, the man’s distressed sounds have died down to nothing more than pained whimpers and quivering breaths with the occasional sniffle here and there as he processes the trauma of being dismembered and broiled like a human steak. The clown whips his apron over his head and hangs the blood-spattered garment on a hook with uncharacteristic gentleness, then retrieves the detached appendage from the workbench with equal care. He keeps one hand curled tightly into a fist, hiding the prize he holds within as he fumbles around in search of something. Meanwhile, you’re busy trying to keep the roiling bile in your stomach down.

The clown spins and moves towards you, one hand dripping blood and the other tucked out of sight behind his back. Instinct tells you not to look, but morbid curiosity says otherwise. Your lashes flutter as you prepare yourself and you find the clown’s face stretched familiarly into that same lecherous grin. His delighted eyes burn as bright as the scorching hot flame and you know that can’t possibly be good. When it seems his smile might split his face right in half, he finally makes the big reveal.

From behind his back, he dramatically presents a large magnifying glass. The lens is scratched and tinged brown beyond function yet it still serves the clown’s purposes just fine. He swings his arm wide in a theatrical fashion to hold the magnifying glass near his face as he opens the palm of his other hand to unveil the man’s severed member. His drawn-on eyebrows slam down and his lips mash into a flat line as he tries to peer into the lens and proceeds to move it back and forth between his face and hand as if struggling to see the disembodied penis even through the magnification. Without warning, the magnifying glass drops from his hand and shatters on the floor, making you jump. 

The clown’s eyebrows launch upwards and his mouth gapes wide. He bends backwards and mimes a seriously maniacal laugh, holding a hand to his stomach and even pretending to wipe tears from his eyes as an added touch. You almost find yourself laughing at how absurdly fucked up it all is.

A devious expression overcomes his painted face and that smile — the one which lets you know something awful is about to happen — returns. The clown approaches you where you still sit and places a hand on your bare knee, using it as leverage to wrench your thighs open. You instinctively try to slam them shut, but you’re no match for the clown’s strength. What began as panic soon melds into shocked horror when he directs the bloody, limp penis towards your parted legs and moves it in and out in a taunting manner, seeming to threaten to penetrate you with it. 

Your offended exclamation has his probing gaze snapping to your face. He ceases flopping the appendage around only long enough to wag his finger in admonishment. When he shakes his head with disapproval, it doesn’t seem quite as silly as all of his other gags. There’s an unspoken and indecipherable warning in the controlled, reprimanding oscillation of his head. Having sufficiently weirded you out to his satisfaction, the clown blindly tosses the penis over his shoulder with careless whimsy where it lands with a wet slap at the man’s feet.

The sound appears to make the clown take pause, something new churning in his iniquitous brain. His body tilts slowly away from you and he spends a long moment observing the half-conscious man in the corner. There’s an unsettling chill in his eyes when he turns back. In quick succession, he points to the slumped man, the discarded appendage, and then to you; all the while, an impression of inquiry in his expression.

You understand what he’s asking, you’re just not sure whether to be wary of or flattered by the crazy clown’s apparent indignation. Surely, he recognizes the hypocrisy in being insulted on your behalf after what he’s done. Your head shakes almost imperceptibly when you finally respond.

“No, not with that,” you manage to choke out, suddenly feeling inexplicably embarrassed.

The clown’s face is vacant and motionless for a painful length of time. It feels like he’s staring straight through you. He lifts his right hand and points to it with his left, eyebrows raised quizzically. You can only nod your confirmation. His gaze drops to your lap, lingering between your still-parted thighs for longer than you’re comfortable with.

You’re not certain how many times you’ve watched his eyes go blank and his mouth slack, only that the empty expression always serves as a hair-raising harbinger of something heinous. This occasion is no different. You hardly have time for your skin to crawl or your heart to skip a beat the way it has previously when the clown suddenly whips around in a blur of black and white to snatch up the hacksaw he’d been holding earlier.

The man in the chair hasn’t a chance to react either before the clown kicks him with all his might, sending the man toppling to the floor. His head bounces off the concrete and it seems to jostle him from a stupor, launching him into a fit of frantic mumbling which the clown puts an end to when he crouches down and promptly shoves the man’s own severed penis straight into his open mouth. 

Without preamble, the clown leans over and begins to saw through one of the man’s bound arms. Not cutting at the elbow where the joint would allow for an easier amputation, but grinding the teeth of the tool halfway down the man’s forearm. The grating of metal against bone churns your stomach. Screams of pain echo off the brick walls and pierce through your skull in a way you know will haunt you.

Though muffled, his agonized sobbing is disturbing to listen to. Luckily for you, it doesn’t last much longer. The clown emerges from his stooped position with half an arm and a whole lot of teeth. His demonic mouth unfurls with a silent cackle as he flaps the severed limb about, even using it to wave at you. Blood pours from the end of the arm where jagged bone pokes out, the thick liquid spilling down the clown's own limbs and soaking into the shiny fabric of his costume. It's a macabre image like something straight out of your nightmares.

“What are you?” you wonder aloud, horrified.

Not wanting to monopolize all the fun for himself, the clown crosses the room, toting his freshly harvested arm. With two hands, he holds it parallel to the ground and extends his long arms to offer it to you. Fat drops of blood leak from the limb and plop wet and warm into your lap. Persistently, the clown stretches even further to pass the disgusting arm to you and you have nowhere to go except backwards. 

Pulling your legs up, you plant your bare heels under yourself and scoot away from him, using your hands in tandem to shuffle faster. The clown instantaneously releases the arm and it falls to the ground with a sickening sound, freeing up his hands to snatch your ankles before you can get away. You screech instinctively, but he doesn’t heed the terror in your high-pitched utterance. He yanks hard and your much weaker arms offer little resistance as you topple over. You’re pulled in rather violently and he situates you lengthwise along the table, your legs hanging over the edge and bracketing either side of his thighs.

Panic still floods your mind and you immediately sit up, ready to continue your fight to escape, however the clown plants his hands on your blood-smeared thighs and presses his weight down until the crushing pain of it makes you cry out. If you want him to stop, you’ll have to stay still. Your hands curl around the edge of the table and you tamp down every instinct you have in order to do what he wants.

The clown doesn’t let go of you until he’s certain you won’t try to get away. You’d have vehemently promised him your cooperation if the ache in your bones wasn’t stealing your breath. The clown relents and you practically moan with relief, panting and frightened. When you look up at the figure standing between your knees, you’re surprised to find him with his arms crossed petulantly across his stained chest. He regards you with disdain and frustration, displeased with your refusal of his gracious, gory gift.

He takes a single step back — his attention having shifted to the blood-soaked garment that hangs off his lanky frame — and he throws his hands up in mock exasperation. One long arm reaches behind his back and you hear the sound of a small zipper. You half expect him to reveal that his body is actually composed of a million little bugs and spiders beneath the suit, or at least something equally disturbing. To your relief, the revelation is much less sensational. 

The loosened material falls away to expose his shoulders first, his skin so pallid it’s nearly the same shade as his painted face. His long arms and slender torso are so plainly unremarkable that it makes him almost too human. With nothing but the white hood stained red still around his head, the clown looks more silly than scary, but you’re too transfixed by the sheer normalcy of what was hidden beneath to even notice. The costume slips free of his bony wrists, stopping just short of falling away completely when it settles on the protrusions of his hips. That cloying, sickly sweet scent wafts from him more strongly now, starkly contradicting both his gruesome appearance and grotesque behavior.

Humiliation warms your cheeks when he catches you staring, but he’s more interested in something else. He falls easily back into his role as a joker, suddenly gesturing almost apologetically to the sanguine splatters covering your legs. The tip of one finger swipes through a large droplet of blood, leaving a clean streak in its wake. The clown flattens a palm against each of your thighs and drags his hands towards himself, trying to use his filthy gloves to sop up some of the blood, but they’re already so sodden that he only makes more of a mess.

His mouth forms an inspired circle and you can practically see the light bulb flicker above his hat-topped head. Time slows and you watch him pitch forward, hinging at the waist when he bends to lick at the blood staining the skin just above your knee. The wet heat of his lapping tongue is shocking in the worst way. Your body moves reflexively, leaning away from him until you’re forced to catch yourself with your palms braced behind you.

A startled gasp escapes more loudly than you would have liked and the clown pulls his head back at once, a high-browed, jesting look of surprise contorting his painted face. The taut, rounded shape of his mouth soon morphs into a broad grin that makes your stomach flip for a plethora of reasons. His eyelids lower in the closest thing he can manage to sultry and he delves back in with fervor, latching his lips to your thigh even higher than before. Though slender, his fingers grip your legs with incredible strength and keep you in place. His teeth occasionally catch your flesh as he licks and sucks the blood away. 

When your brain finally manages to function somewhat normally, your hands can only float uselessly above the clown, too afraid to push him away for fear of the consequences. His mouth journeys higher and higher until his angular nose reaches the hem of your tattered dress and pushes it far enough to reveal the plain pair of panties beneath. The rush of his breath fanning over your underwear is enough to finally make your paralyzed hands move, but it’s too late.

Sitting up straight, your hands have barely made contact with the warm skin of the clown’s upper arms when the tip of his moist tongue sweeps with pointed precision directly over your covered center. Though you had intended to shove him away, the sensation instead causes your fingers to dig harshly into his soft biceps and you cry out. The clown peers up at you and carefully nods his head with approving enthusiasm before returning to the apex of your thighs to do it again, almost experimentally. The whimper he earns this time is twice as sweet and he pulls away, clapping happily in awe of his discovery.

Still stained with the fruits of his labor, a red-tipped finger sneaks between your thighs and he swirls it with damning pressure directly on your bundle of nerves. You don’t want to react, but a hiss escapes you, unbidden. The clown’s face twists with elation and he does it again and again until your teeth clench with restraint. You know your lack of sounds does nothing to preserve your dignity when you can feel the wet spot you’re sure must be visible through your underwear by now.

He seems to be testing the limits, seeing how far he can push before you’ll break. Adding a second finger, he rubs more firmly and his touch drifts from your clit to your entrance where most of the moisture collects. You keep your eyes fixed securely on the ceiling where you only have to see the termite-ravaged rafters and not what this murderous clown is doing to you. Still, you can feel the clown’s unwavering stare burning holes into your upturned face. It isn’t long before your panties are soaked through and you can actually hear the stickiness as he massages the damp material into your folds.

You know it’s twisted and you should stop him, but some incredibly sick part of you wants to indulge his curiosity. And another small part of you just wants to avoid pissing him off, lest you end up asphyxiated on some body part of your own or missing one of your limbs. 

You’re finding it increasingly difficult to think clearly enough to make a decision because the clown’s relentless ministrations have the muscles in your thighs beginning to quiver. His touch is dizzying and when his pinkie finger trails along the seam of your underwear where it meets the sensitive crease of your thigh, your legs part ever so slightly. This is apparently all the evidence he needs of your capitulation because what little control he’d been showing suddenly snaps.

In an instant, the clown has tucked all four fingers beneath the gusset of your panties. He yanks so hard that your bare ass skids across the workbench and nearly off the edge. You barely manage to catch yourself on your elbows before your skull slams into the hard surface behind you. Your underwear is wrenched a second time and the material digs into your flesh for a moment before splitting. He divests you of the shredded fabric, making sure to undermine the moment by wrapping the ruined garment around his head like a babushka.

The clown cups behind your knees and shoves both you and your legs upwards, forcing you to plant your feet on the surface of the table and leaving you laid openly bare before him. He wastes no time ravishing your exposed center, his mouth latching onto you without hesitation. His tongue moves with little finesse, sloppily soaking your already wet cunt with saliva. Your hips lift with a shriek and he wraps an arm around either leg to pin you down while he feasts on you, his sharp nose bumping your clit and sending zings of pleasure through your body.

You’re too far gone to think about the blood still coating his fingers when two of them force their way into your slippery pussy. A whine catches in your throat as the clown curls his fingers deliciously, massaging your walls in a way that has your head tossing from side to side. Using the widest part of his tongue, he pushes the muscle with unforgiving speed against your clit until your vision blanks.

Juices flow abundantly as the clown fucks you with his fingers and mouth. Stopping once or twice to allow a string of saliva to drip from his pointed tongue only adds to the slickness. His tongue occasionally delves into your entrance to taste every bit of nectar you have to offer. When your back begins to arch, he redoubles his efforts, shoving your knees to your chest as he plucks a fierce orgasm from your willing body. His lips latch onto the turgid bundle of nerves and with very little effort, you wail and fall apart like putty in his bloodied hands.

He doesn’t stop when you cum. The rough tip of his tongue slips with agonizing slowness from your cunt to your clit, then back down with the softer, smoother underside of the muscle. The continual onslaught of the clown’s mouth becomes too much once your orgasm dissipates and the stimulation is overwhelming, forcing you to clench your thighs around his head. You finally find your voice and beg for mercy, tears collecting in the corners of your eyes as you endure the torturous slithering of his long tongue.

Eventually, the clown grants the mercy for which you’ve begged and rises from between your shaking thighs. His vast grin glistens more than usual in the low light and a combination of your essence and his saliva coats his chin, tinged pink from the blood he’d cleansed from your thighs. The sight should terrify you, but has the opposite effect, instead tying your stomach in reprehensible knots. 

With your body still propped on your elbows, you have a perfect vantage point to study the looming clown. His shoulders are pulled high and taut, his entire frame expands and deflates with deep, steady breaths. Those long teeth grind, his jaw shifting contemplatively from side to side as he wars with his wavering control. Something decidedly evil brews in his light green irises. 

Your gaze drifts lower along his seemingly never-ending body to where the clown’s partially-shed costume still clings to his trim pelvis. The thin material does very little to disguise the distinct ridge of a growing erection, its outline pronounced and slightly curved. He watches your pupils dilate and your mouth drop open with a humorously audible pop. He holds one palm bashfully in front of his mouth and coquettishly flutters his dark lashes, shyly shooing you away with his opposite hand and shimmying his shoulders in a facade of self-consciousness.

His hand promptly falls to his waist where he nudges the silken fabric of his jumpsuit lower until it slips down his long legs. Bared to you now, you’re graced with the sight of his half-hard cock. The shaft is notably thick and measures up nicely; pale and smooth like marble with the weeping tip the same fleshy pink as his wicked tongue. You’re not as disgusted as you should be by the sight and that thought is sobering. When you use your hands and feet to scurry backwards across the table again, the clown’s dick jerks as it hardens further. 

A punishing grip crushes your windpipe as he takes you by the throat and halts your momentum, his entire body practically thrown over yours atop the table just to prevent you from getting away. You claw at his imprisoning hand, your fingernails leaving several raised scratches across his otherwise perfect skin while you gasp for air and he drags you back where he’s decided you belong. He releases your neck only to slam you flat on your back with a palm splayed across your chest. This time, your head does bounce off the workbench.

Hiking one thigh over his hip and pushing the other at an angle you aren’t quite flexible enough for, the clown spreads you wide open. His height makes it so that he’s almost too tall for his pelvis to align with yours but he does his best, bending his knees just enough for his impressively hard cock to nestle heavily across your pubic bone. Several tumescent pearls seep from the swollen tip, leaving a trail of sticky precum when he pulls his hips back. 

Your muscles quake with the effort it takes to keep your bent leg in place when the clown releases his grip on the limb. Using his free hand, he drags the blood-soaked glove covering his palm along the length of his throbbing shaft, eyes igniting with sinful heat as he watches his fist pumping. His knuckles lightly brush your clit and the contact has you ready to launch straight off the table. 

The clown releases his length, letting it fall back against your pussy with a wet plop. With his thumb wedged just beneath the tip, he angles his cock towards your slick hole and uses its girth to stretch you open. Just as your lips part in awe, his hips thrust forward to bury several inches inside of you and a startled yelp rips from your mouth. He pauses momentarily to laugh noiselessly at you, the jostling of his body allowing his cock to slip deeper. 

The pressure is mind-numbing, though you fear you might actually pass out when the clown drags your body close to his, impaling you until your walls are stretched around the thickest part of his cock and the thatch of hair at the base is saturated in your flood of juices. A full-body convulsion causes your internal muscles to clench and even the malevolent clown is not immune to the stimulation. His blackened mouth hangs open on a soundless moan, eyes hazed with salacious lust as he watches his cock retract from your dripping cunt. The slick pull of his length makes you cry out.

“Oh…my god,” you breathe.

The clown plunges deep once more, bottoming out — once, twice, three times — until your breath catches as you watch him sink every fat inch into your pussy. Your eyes pinch shut against the undeniable pleasure. He repeats the motion over and over until his thrusting hips settle into a steady, unabating rhythm that has you racing towards another orgasm. The wetness spilling from your core would prevent any decent friction if the clown’s cock wasn’t so thick, but each precise grind of his hips is wracking your body with ecstasy. As the rapturous sensations build, so too does the volume of your moaned chanting.

“Fuck, oh my god. Oh my god. Oh…my…god.”

Fire licks at the back of your neck and your toes curl, every fiber of your being trying to fend off the intensity of the tumultuous orgasm which approaches. You wrench your eyes open only to find the clown's eyebrows angled sadly and his frowning lips moving in sync with your simpering words, silently mocking every pathetically moaned syllable perfectly in time with your hoarse voice. 

Feeling humiliated by his taunting, your cheeks heat and you reach between your legs to press a flattened hand to his lower stomach in an attempt to put an end to the havoc he wreaks on you. You’ve made the mistake of reaching down with your injured arm and he takes advantage, circling your forearm in his spindly fingers and squeezing — digging deep in the tender wound — until the raw flesh begins to bleed and you yell like a snared animal. You recoil in pain, your body tensing as you do and clamping harshly around the cock still rutting between your thighs. 

Pain mingles with hellish pleasure and your cunt ripples uncontrollably, threatening to bring you both to your end. You slam your eyes shut and hold your breath against the rising tide. Sensing the battle you wage, the clown opts to prolong his torment. Bracing his large hands on the workbench, he uses the leverage to fuck you even harder and deeper, his hips slamming so roughly that it knocks the wind out of you. You’re on the verge of sobbing, each sorrowful sound distorted by the force of the clown’s cock pummeling your body.

A warm palm lands none-too-gently across your face, the clown’s pinkie and thumb tucked between your cheekbone and jaw on either side of your face; his other three fingers gouge indentations into your forehead as he easily clutches the entirety of your skull in his hand. The filthy fabric of his glove crushes against your nose and mouth, soiled with your blood and saliva as it impedes your ability to breathe properly. 

As the clown approaches his own release, his thrusts become brutal, fucking you mercilessly without a care for your pleasure or comfort. He shows no consideration for your life either, judging by the way he continues to smother you. Still, your own orgasm is quickly becoming inevitable and he can tell by the desperate way you swirl your hips, trying hopelessly to meet every stroke of his swelling cock.

He shifts his grasp on your face, allowing you to take a much needed breath. He pinches your cheeks with all of his strength, ensuring that it hurts. When you refuse to open your eyes, he taps his fingers against your damp cheek, hitting you harder and harder until you meet his dominating glare. His fingers proceed to dig painfully into your face like a claw and you’re glad his blunt nails aren’t sharp enough to break the skin.

The clown curls his body ominously over top of yours. He crowds your space, your vision, your mind. You can see and feel nothing but him. You’re surrounded, every one of your senses blotted out by his presence. In a fleeting moment of clarity, you finally recognize that syrupy scent which clings to his skin like an entity all its own: sugary, saccharine cotton candy. A total antithesis to the malicious beast it oozes from. 

His grinning mouth splits wide so a stream of pink-tinged saliva can drool from his open lips and splatter along your abdomen. He holds fast to your cheeks, forcing you to maintain eye contact until his cold eyes roll briefly to the back of his head.

“Shit. Fuck,” you cry, fearing what’s about to happen and knowing you’ll never be able to stop it.

He smiles evilly and his head nods fervently when he sees the abject horror and realization in your face. Eyes flashing fully white, the clown’s body begins to vibrate with furious, unbridled carnality. In an attempt to get out from under him, you twist your hips in a way that only allows the clown to slip deeper than ever, his cock bumping painfully against your cervix and his tight, cum-laden balls crushed against your ass. 

Your palms slam flat at your sides and his crash down right beside them. Against your better judgment, one of your legs hooks firmly against the taut muscles of the clown’s bare back, locking him in place as your pussy constricts with a release that shatters your sanity. His torso quakes powerfully as he crumbles along with you, his head nearly coming to rest against your chest as he cums deep inside you. 

He makes no noise, but a sharp exhale unleashes a long, hot puff of air across your skin. Every pulse of his cock as he spurts more of his seed extends your orgasm until your whole body shakes with exhaustion. Your cunt squeezes his throbbing length so hard you fear he may never leave your body. 

Contrarily, the clown is already moving between your thighs, thrusting his cock decidedly deep with a final cruel stroke before pulling out with aching slowness. His barely softened length rubs every one of your sensitive nerve endings and your body launches into another, less debilitating orgasm. The tip of his dick slips free along with a flood of cum that drips down to collect beneath you. 

Hardly conscious, you hear the shuffling of fabric as the clown redresses in his bloody costume. He tucks his cock — still partially stiff and slick with your abundant juices — into the suit before casually sliding his long arms down the sleeves. You’re left exposed, your panties missing and your dress hiked just under your breasts. He studies his cum- and blood-stained gloves for a moment, rolls his eyes, then plucks them comically from his hands and flings them over his shoulder with a shrug and a dopey frown. 

Pools of saliva shine on your belly and the clown slides between your open thighs to lick it up. You flinch at the contact, your body still on edge and hyper-aware of his teasing touch. His tongue trails slowly from your belly button to your sternum and back down to the apex of your thighs where he delves gently between your folds to taste your mingeld cum. 

The salty sweetness makes him breathe hotly against your center. It's a soothing sensation, swiftly interrupted by the intrusion of his fingers slipping into your used cunt with shallow strokes. The clown coats his fingers in your juices, dipping in and out until you whimper before using the sticky white fluid to draw three sloppy letters across the space between your hips; writing his name to mark you as his property, a plaything to keep around only as long as it suits his sinister whims.

Writing Masterpost

[trashforhockeyguys]

Vienna Waits For You -7- William Nylander

A/N: All previous parts are linked in my masterlist. Just straight angst. Really nothing but angsty angst.

“I feel like there’s something I missed,” Jackson’s voice broke Avalyn’s dazed state.

They were in between takes, several members of the crew were huddled around a series of monitors trying to figure out how to make the scene feel a little more natural and believable. Across the set, which was really an ice rink, William and a few of the other Leafs were dressed in a fictional team’s warmups. Most of them had wigs or some form of prosthetics on so they wouldn’t be automatically recognizable. But even with a brown wig, William still stood out to her.

“No, you nailed all of the dialog, I don’t think it has anything to do with us,” Avalyn shrugged, not able to tear her eyes away from the men across from her.

“No, I know the scene was fine. I’m talking about the look you have,” He nudged her with his shoulder, “Did you sleep with him?”

Avalyn nearly choked, not expecting that to be his assessment. Although, when it came to her, Jackson was always very blunt and to the point. Especially on set where they didn’t get much time to dance around conversations. But this…this wasn’t a discussion she was expecting to have.

“What kind of a question is that? I most certainly did not sleep with him!” She was careful not to be too loud, but still made sure Jackson fully understood the gravity of his question.

“You know I wouldn’t be judging if you did. You know we’re long beyond judging.”

“I didn’t sleep with him,” She repeated again, “I kissed him…but it didn’t go further than that, even if I wanted it to.”

“Do we need to like, girl chat about this?”

She shook her head slowly, “No. I’m fine.”

He knew she wasn’t though. He could see it in her eyes and the way she looked at William. There was a sort of longing that Jackson hadn’t seen from her. Like her heart was somehow walking outside of her body now and she’d yet to figure it out. But she was masochistic, she wouldn’t do anything about it as long as her managers still had something to hold over her.

“You know, they can’t control who you love, Avey,” He said smiling softly at his best friend, “I’m going to see what’s going on with the footage.”

She nodded, not really paying attention to Jackson anymore. She just couldn’t take her eyes off of William in that stupid wig. To anyone who didn’t know him, he probably still looked just as attractive. But she hated seeing him like that…like someone who wasn’t himself. Maybe that’s how he felt about her, whenever he said that he preferred her more without a glam squad working for hours to get her camera ready.

William seemed to feel her looking at him, he smiled before excusing himself from the group of his teammates. Slowly he made his way over to Avalyn. Watching her work…he finally saw the beauty in her job. The way she was able to turn a flat script into a person, a whole story and life…he wasn’t sure he could really understand how she was even able to do any of it.

“Having fun?” He questioned, sitting down next to her.

She shrugged before reaching up and tugging a strand of his wig, “This is worse up close.”

He stretched at his head, his nose scrunching up as he did, “It’s itchy as hell too.”

Avalyn had to suppress a laugh, “It’s just not you.”

He smiled before tugging a chunk of her hair in return, “But this… this is you.”

She fought back a smile. One thing she already loved about this show was that her hair stayed almost completely natural. Her messy, unruly waves were on full display. For once she didn’t have layers of makeup caked on either, but rather light layers to even her skin and complement. Rather than completely change her. She was even allowed to wear her glasses.

“It’s funny, I’m still playing someone else, yet I haven’t felt more like myself in a long time.”

Avalyn tried not to pay any attention to the warmth that spread throughout her. Or the electricity that seemed to jump between the two of them. She tried not to blush just thinking about the kiss they shared, or how she wished it could have gone further.

Netflix would be announcing the show in the next few weeks, which meant everyone would know that she was in Toronto. There would be no more hiding, no more lying to convince people that she wasn’t the one in the photo with William. Avalyn couldn’t be selfish anymore, not when his career was at stake. She wouldn’t allow anything to happen to him because of her.

“It’s cool watching you work,” He mentioned casually.

“I guess I’ll have to come to a game then, so I can actually see you work, and not watch highlights after the fact.”

There was a sense of playfulness between the two. Avalyn was hoping it would cover just how much she wanted their situation to be different. William was hoping it would make her comfortable. But in the end, they really wanted the same thing. They wanted each other.

“I’ll get you a jersey then. Maybe mine?”

“Oh, real smooth Nylander,” She laughed, shoving her shoulder into his.

“Worth a shot.”

“Hey Avey! Get over here for a sec, need your opinion!” Jackson called from the series of monitors.

“Duty calls,” She sighed, “Go get some snacks from Craft, if anyone harps on you, tell them I sent you.”

She winked at him as she walked away, hoping he didn’t notice how she was nearly shaking. She could keep toeing this line, as long as she felt like she still had some level of power over him. If only William knew that he held all of the cards, all of the power, she was completely at his mercy. If he decided to take this, whatever it was, further she would hardly be able to stop herself from falling head first with him.

“Trying to figure out what style works best,” Jackson explained once she reached the group huddled around the monitors, “You’re a producer too, so you get a say.”

“Well, you said you wanted this to be like the Friday Night Lights of the hockey world right?” Avalyn asked the director and creator, “Maybe try a few shots like that? No fancy angles or close coverages unless you really need it. Let the camera crew do what feels right.”

“You know what, one of our key members of the crew worked on Friday Night Lights back in the day, he’s running the cameras,” Eric explained, “It just might work. Not to copy them, but bring back that simple nostalgic way of shooting.”

“Alright, we’ll give it a try,” The director agreed, before telling the AD to round up the crew.

Jackson slung his arm over Avalyn’s shoulder, flashing a big smile, “Alright kiddo, let’s get some work done.”

After a long day on set, Avalyn collapsed on her couch. Another body followed her movements, long blond hair fanning out behind him. The whole car ride back to her apartment William kept talking about how tired he was, but how cool he thought the whole experience was.

Avalyn remembered that feeling from the first time she was on her first big set, surrounded by huge Hollywood stars. The way all of it seemed like a dream somehow, like she was peering behind the curtain and seeing all types of things that she wasn’t supposed to. But William already knew everyone on set, thanks to the month spent preparing, and the extra few weeks of training. He still couldn’t help but feel in awe though. Mostly of Avalyn.

“You look worse than you do after a game,” She laughed, pushing his hair out of his face.

“I didn’t realize how exhausting your job is,” He huffed, turning slightly to face her, “But shit, you’re amazing.”

She blushed, looking away from him to try to hide it, “I’ve just spent my whole life doing that. I’m not nearly as talented as some people in the business.”

There was a long silence. Avalyn almost thought William fell asleep, until he slowly stood and walked over to her wall of bookshelves. Never in the whole time he’d been coming to her apartment had he actually gone over to take note of all of them. He never questioned them, or why she loved them so much.

“So, why don’t you have a TV? Anytime you want to watch something, it’s on your computer. And I think I’ve only seen you watch hockey movies, or some old historical thing.”

Avalyn shrugged, feeling like her skin was crawling, “Books could still be real. Movies and TV….all they are is smoke and mirrors.”

“So…books,” He scanned her shelves, before pulling out a book being held together by tape, “I should’ve pegged you for someone who loved the Bronte sisters.”

“Emily is my favorite, second only to the wonderful Jane Austen.”

“Please tell me you have an equally tattered copy of Pride and Prejudice in your bedroom.”

“Only for when I want to feel superior to a man with a good fortune who is undoubtedly in want of a wife,” She matched his joking tone, not even noticing the fluttering in her chest.

“Ah, of course. I should have guessed,” He carefully put the book back on the shelf, “So English Lit mostly?”

“A lot of historical fiction and biographies,” She shrugged, “But yes, I have all of the greats. English and American.”

“Well, you truly are an accomplished woman. Can you draw and play the piano too?”

She held back a laugh, “I can hardly draw a stick figure, but I can play enough. I feel like I should be really shocked that you’ve seen Pride and Prejudice.”

“Only the Keira Knightly version,” He pointed out, “My little sisters love it. We watch it a lot during the summers.”

He plopped back down on the couch, his arms stretching out across the back, “You’d love summer in Sweden, there’s nothing like it.”

“I passed through once after we finished a shoot. But I couldn’t stop to enjoy it.”

“Well, you’ll have to come by sometime. My sisters would love to meet you,” He said it as if there was no real weight to his words.

Her heart seemed to jump a little when he looked back over at her. There was something about the way that he was so relaxed in her home. He was familiar with every part of her living room and kitchen, comfortable with it. They spent more time here than anywhere else.

“Maybe I will one of these days,” She hoped her voice didn’t sound as shaky as she thought it did.

“I wish I could kiss you again.”

Avalyn suddenly felt the need to put as much distance between the two as she could, “They’re going to announce the show in the next few weeks. Everyone will know I’m here, which means I won’t have as much freedom as I’ve had.”

“Doesn’t mean-”

“It means, William, that this has to stop. I won’t let you risk your whole career for something that won’t last.”

He moved to be closer to her, she could feel the heat from his body where their legs now touched, “I hate to break it to you Ava, but you can’t make that decision for me.”

“I could cut you out of my life,” She said, regretting it the instant the words left her mouth.

“No, you wouldn’t.” He challenged.

But there was no bite to his words, his voice was low and soft. She felt it to her very core. Warmth started to spread throughout her. She could fight it though. She could get control over herself and make sure he stayed free of her.

“Will. Please.”

“For once in your life Ava, do something that you want to do,” It was the way he said her name, his name for her. Avalyn thought she would melt, “But if you say no, and I mean really say it. Because you don’t want this…I’ll walk out and this will be over.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” She admitted softly, “I- I don’t know how to explain it. I’ve known Jackson my whole life, and he knows me, really knows me. But you…Will, you see me. It scares the shit out of me. When you first met me, I was more worried that you’d join up with Margot to try to ruin everything I spent my whole life building. Now I’m scared shitless because somehow…somehow you see through all of the bullshit I fake.”

“Only because I care. Albeit maybe a little too much, but god I care.”

She found it hard to get air into her lungs, hard to even think. She was sure her hands were shaking. She didn’t want to let him walk out, because she knew she really would lose him that way. But she wasn’t sure how she could allow him to stay either.

“If you stay….this is all we can have. Empty apartments and dark corners if we’re lucky. We could never go out publicly, couldn’t post about us on social media,” She took a deep breath, one that made her whole body shake, “I wouldn’t be able to come to your games without it being a cast outing or with…or with Jackson, as a date.”

“I don’t care,” His voice was soft as he reached for her, seeming to only need to be closer.

But her hand stopped his, gently pulling it away from her face. He could see her breaking, every moment bringing them closer to the edge of some sort of precipice that they wouldn’t be able to step back from. They could feel it, both of them, like they were about to free fall into something neither one was prepared for.

“You wouldn’t be able to tell your family. We’d only know each other in passing, or professionally. But even then…we’d have to act like strangers. I lied about you once and it made me physically sick. Will, I don’t know if I could do that all the time. I don’t-”

She let him fully reach for her this time. He held her tightly as tears began to fall down her cheeks. He knew he couldn’t ask her for this. No matter how much they might want to live this life together, this love story; he knew it would break her. Her whole life was carefully calculated and planned out, until she came to Toronto. But he wouldn’t ask her to destroy what little bit of her heart that her parents hadn’t yet crushed. Truth was, he loved her too much for that.

William wasn’t even sure how it was possible, but he knew by the way his chest tightened as he held her. Somehow, he could find a way to free her from all of this life. He wanted her to have all of the good things that life had to offer. He wanted her to be free.

“Then know, whatever happens… I know you Ava, I see you,” His voice was so soft she almost didn’t hear it, “I love you.”

She was sure he could hear her heart breaking as he kissed the top of her head. This was a new feeling for her, the brokenness deep within her all while her heart seemed to fly at his words and touch. But her mind knew this was it, even if her heart wasn’t ready for it yet. So, Avalyn clutched onto William, just for a few more moments.

“I love you,” Her voice was that of a person who was truly shattered.

She forced herself to look up at him, one last time where she could really see it all. His eyes were full of tears he wouldn’t let fall. She gently reached up, thumb stoking his cheek. There was so much she wanted to remember. Like her, William was someone different when it was just them. She wanted to remember this version of him.

“We’ll always have this,” He whispered, trying to reassure them both.

She grabbed his hand again, gently pulling him to follow her, “I want to play you something.”

A fresh set of tears fell from her eyes as she walked backwards to her bedroom. She tried to calm her shaking body. Her old keyboard sat in the corner of her plain bedroom. William tried not to think about how big of a step this had to be for her. Her room was the one place she really didn’t have to hide anything. The door was always closed when he came. Now, he was standing in the middle of it, watching as she slowly lowered herself onto the bench, before turning to beckon him over as well.

“My uh- my parents loved Billy Joel when I was little. Love for his music is probably the only good thing they’ve ever really given me,” Her voice shook with uncertainty, “I haven’t played this for anyone before. I don’t… I don’t play for people, even Jackson.”

“Then you don’t have to.”

“No,” She was quick to say, needing him to understand, “If this is all we have…then I want you to have this too. A little bit of light in the dark.”

Slowly her fingers found the keys, playing a soft melody that she hummed often. William was able to recognize it quickly, although he didn’t actually know the song. Her eyes were closed as she played, tears still slipping down. His chest felt heavy at the sight. But then her voice filled the room, soft and beautiful and broken.

He sat so still the entire time, watching her. Her beautiful self. He didn’t think it was possible to feel so many things all at once, but she once again was proving to him that he knew nothing. He wanted to hold her, to bring her out with him. A far cry from how he felt when they first met. Back when he thought he knew all he needed to about Avalyn Bradshaw Kreitzburg. Back when he thought everything was cut and dry with members of the Hollywood elite. He was so wrong, about everything. He only wished they would have more time together. But they would hardly be able to see one another anymore, not with their schedules becoming crazier and crazier by the second. His season was becoming more intense, and she was on set almost every spare second. This would be it for them.

“Vienna waits for you….”

She played the last few notes and the room fell silent. Avalyn hung her head, trying to pull herself together for just a few more moments. She would say goodbye and somehow keep going. This would just become a small moment in time, William would become a blip on the timeline that she might one day tell people about at a party.

“So…now we have Vienna too,” She said softly, “And it’ll always be waiting.”

[alittletournesol]

A super spooky night {SHINee/SuperM}

[In this story, the conditions and rights of the LGBTQ+ community in South Korea are completely altered to make same-sex marriage and adoption legally possible. An alternative universe I wish to become reality someday.]

Pairings: OnKey / JongHo Additional characters: kid!Taemin and kid!SuperM’ (except for Baekhyun)

A super spooky night

The clock shows half past five above the dining table when Kibum places the last small bat made of sugar paste on the tremendous cake. He spent his whole day off baking and drawing the most impressive dessert up, also with the help of his boyfriend for the past two hours. Both men take a few steps back to contemplate their work, holding their breath for a minute as if worried they might make the structure fall with just a sigh. But it stands.

Built with three round layers of different circumferences, the cake is all about black and purple homemade frosting. Every decoration is made of almond or sugar paste shaped to represent various characters from a famous animated movie, The Nightmare Before Christmas. The “icing on the cake” actually has nothing to do with icing ; it’s a massive, round bubble of white chocolate with sculpted holes that create the face of Jack Skellington.

Kibum is particularly proud of this part of the cake, for it took him four tries before reaching this impressive result. He had to look for some videos to get that special technic, so he could perfectly pour melted chocolate on a blown up balloon, let it harden with time before delicately sculpting the holes and remove the balloon without breaking the whole thing. The fourth result is perfect, placed on top of the cake and surrounded by little sugar pumpkins. It’s all ready.

“I thought we wouldn’t finish it in time.” Jinki comments, finally allowing himself to sit as he removes his apron. “What are you doing ?”

“Taking pictures of course !” His boyfriend replies as he draws his phone, his enthusiasm showing in the way his eyes sparkle. “That shit took me a day, I won’t let it be engulfed within ten minutes and be forgotten just like that.”

“Sure, but careful with those words once we’ll be there.”

“I’m always careful. Speaking of that, what time is it ?”

“Half past five, more or less. When are we expected ?”

“Half past six.”

“Shit.”

Ignoring Kibum’s laughter at his cursing word, the older man stands up and leaves the kitchen to take a quick shower. They barely have an hour to get dressed and show up at their appointment’s place, which sounds like an impossible mission. However, both men have a certain thing in common : they’re organized. Before time runs out, they’re both all clean from any trace of baking and wearing their costumes ; as they look at each other in the large mirror of their bedroom, Jinki can’t help but snort.

Since they started dating almost four years ago, they’ve been into couple clothes and items, but this year marks their first real couple outfit for this spooky occasion… and he definitely got scammed here. Standing next to him and adjusting his dragon-like horned headdress, Kibum looks stunning in his own version of Maleficent — the recent one, not the one from the very old movie. It has been an idea from their friends’ son, who thought from all of his five years of age that his uncle’s face somehow looked like the dark fairy’s.

The man had found the concept way too appealing to ignore it. That’s how and why he’s now standing proudly in front of the glass, his realistic and expensive costume fitting him as if he was the original character himself. He fully played the game, making his cheekbones look even higher and his jaw sharper by using an easy makeup method with silicon — he’d tried it numerous times before that day, to be sure he wouldn’t mess it up when time would come. And he didn’t.

“Can you remind me about the reason behind my costume ?” Jinki asks, drawing the other man out of his self-contemplation. “Didn’t you tell me that Maleficent has a whole people of her own kind ? Why am I just… a semi-crow and not one of them ?”

“She does, but the crow is more significant.” His boyfriend replies, always serious when it comes to a universe he loves. “The crow was like the part of her she was missing when she became the shadow of her former self. He helped her and always stood by her side, even when she technically didn’t need him anymore. There’s a long lasting affection between them, they’re like… partners in crime. And I wanted to see your handsome face so I went for the crow’s human version.”

“So… I’m your other half and handsome partner in crime ?”

“Exactly. See ? Perfectly fitting us.”

Smiling, Kibum steals the other man a gentle kiss and adjusts the collar of the latter’s black jacket, covered with feathers to remind of the bird. If there is something he loves to see, it’s Jinki wearing black clothes… which is rare, much to his displeasure. But this day, the older man is even wearing a quality wig to imitate the mid-length dark hair of the character, and damn, how good looking it makes him. His boyfriend is about to forget the real purpose of their costumes when his phone rings, interrupting his contemplation.

Cursing under his breath, he plunges his hand in Jinki’s pocket, surprising the latter, and takes his device.

“Yeah ?” He says when he picks up, the deep but loud voice on the other side extremely recognizable. “What are you saying, we’re not late yet. (…) We’re about to leave but don’t expect us to drive fast, we have a whole damn piece of art to preserve before it fills kids’ stomachs ! (…) Alright, see you there. I’m hanging up.”

As soon as he isn’t hearing his best friend’s voice anymore, the horned man makes a face and sticks his tongue out towards his phone, making his partner laugh. Before they’re really running late, they both head to the kitchen to carefully place a huge glass bell cover above the cake, with small metallic ties on its edge to keep it attached to the plate. Thanks to his work in the fashion industry, Kibum sure has a lot of contacts in this world, but he got lucky enough to be in love with a man who, unlike him, knows professionals chefs personally. He has been lent this high cloche to cover and protect their dessert during the short travel from their house to the school.

Once everything is ready and safe, they lift the cake together to place it on a low trolley and pull their coats on before pushing it out of their apartment. They quietly thank some higher entity for equipping their flat with an elevator as they’re being taken to the private parking lot in the basement. With one last, careful effort, they place the imposing stuff on one of the backseats, even fastening the belt on it. While Kibum takes place next to it to hold it just in case, Jinki takes the wheel and finally, they leave.

On the road, the younger man sends a message to his friend, warning him that they’re on their way and will join them within ten minutes. He smiles when he receives a picture of an excited little boy as an answer, the kid wearing fake fangs that gives him a terrific smile… softened by the way he places his arms above his head to shape a heart.

“Taemin is a vampire this year.” He says, more to himself but loud enough to be heard by his boyfriend. “And I think one of the kids is a ghost, I can see a piece of white sheet on the picture.”

“How many kids will be there, again ?” Jinki asks, mentally trying to count.

“Six with him. Seven if you add Minho.”

“Oh please.”

The driver can’t help but laugh, this constant game between these two adults never failing to amuse him despite how old it’s growing. Kibum and Minho have known each other for more than fifteen years and their friendship only grew stronger by time passing ; though, just like when they were teens, not one day goes by without one of them sending some random attack at the other. At first, Jinki had been startled by this strange behaviour but he quickly got used to it as he spent more and more time in their company.

It’s actually by means of knowing Minho through a few classes in common at university that the older man got to meet the man he now calls his boyfriend. And as if heaven had wanted to kill two birds with one stone, Jinki had been the one introducing his classmate to his own childhood friend during an outing, Jonghyun. Since then, the four young men had become inseparable… and while Kibum had asked Jinki out, Minho had found himself disconcerted by how he had been asked the same by Jonghyun only a couple weeks after.

Years passed and they’re now grown adults, reaching the age of thirty one after another. But time hasn’t altered their friendship, nor their respective love relationships ; the first couple is living under a same roof, as they bought their very first apartment two years ago and got engaged a few months after. If they took their time and planned their wedding for this winter, their friends had tied the knot immediately after leaving university. Their family had quickly been joined by a baby, not even five months old, who had looked at them in the eyes at the adoption agency.

The orphan little boy found two loving, caring parents in the persons of Jonghyun and Minho, who raised him from then. Taemin, as is his name, is a cheerful and always smiling child who makes his dads’ happiness and never misses the chance to overwhelm his soul uncles with his catching laughter. He turned five only a few months ago and is becoming more and more interested in life’s little things, which makes him even more adorable.

Though the first days of separation were difficult for his oldest dad, he’s now going to preschool and enjoying every ounce of it. Kibum remembered his friends’ worries about the matter, since the little boy isn’t of the calm and obedient kind… however, it seems he understood pretty well that school and home are two different environments. For this new school year, he is even showing a new quality of his : patience. His school opened a special class to welcome three foreign children who must improve their Korean, and in order not to make them feel excluded or different, their young teacher managed to bring three native kids in their class.

This is how Taemin is now one of the six students of a small class bringing children from three to five years old. Minho used to fear that the extra attention paid to the three foreigners by their teacher would annoy his son, but his husband was clear about it : it would actually be rewarding. And sure it is, the boy is showing a lot of patience when he is trying to communicate with his classmates who only know the basics of his language for now — even the youngest one is brilliantly improving from all of his three years of age, a talkative one.

Tonight is the first time Kibum and Jinki meet their nephew’s friends, though they already caught sight of them when they occasionally got requested by their friends to pick the kid up from school. The only one they know by name is Jongin, a shy-looking boy who tends to transform himself when being in Taemin’s presence. Both adults feel excited and apprehensive at the same time, for they never spent time with so many children at once…

“We’re there, should I park where teachers park ?” The oldest man draws his fiancé out of his thoughts. “I don’t think it’s open.”

“It’s not but Minho gave me a beeper, I put it in your pocket.” Kibum replies as he takes the gadget from the feathered clothes himself and presses the button. “There you go.”

“Why does he even have a beeper ?”

“The teacher gave him a spare one for tonight, I guess I’ll have to give it back.”

Jinki makes the car slowly move forwards, driving in the parking lot until he recognizes his friends’ vehicle and parks next to it. Once he cuts off contact, he’s the first one to get out and goes to open the boot, taking the folded trolley and giving it his real shape back. He’s about to open the back door when he’s stopped by his boyfriend, who got out through the other door. The semi-crow is told to keep his “clumsy little hands” in his pockets and just giggles as he keeps an eye on the way Kibum is delicately taking the cake out of the car.

They’re not even done placing it on the trolley that they hear a way too familiar voice yelling, growing louder by milliseconds passing. Both men look up and have the reflex to shout “freeze !” to make Taemin stop in his race like for the game they often play. The boy laughs but respects the rule and even poses weirdly to make the thing funnier ; Jinki smiles and makes sure the dessert is safe before he crouches and stretches his arms, welcoming his nephew with a hug.

“Don’t bite me, I wanna live !” He whines before making Taemin move backwards, holding his arms to look at him. “How scary you are, are those real teeth ?!”

“Daddy said to say yes so yes the toothies are real ones !” The boy replies, lisping a bit, before he stands in awe when he sees his other uncle. “Woah ! You look like the real one !”

“That’s the secret, kiddo.” Kibum winks at him before he crouches in his turn, whispering at the kid’s ear. “I am the real one.”

“Stop lying ~”

Their nephew is still laughing and inspecting Maleficent’s horns on his uncle’s head when the three of them are eventually joined by an incredible person. Both men have to look twice before they recognize the man wearing a long, grey toga with shattered tails, his skin painted in a sick-looking shade of grey and his usually blonde hair raised on his head… sprayed with a blazing blue colour.

“Jonghyun, is that you ?” Kibum opens his eyes wide before bursting into laughter. “How the hell did you make your hair stand like that !”

“Lots of gel.” Taemin’s father says before hugging his friends. “Look at us, Bum. Hades and Maleficent, two dark villains !”

“Dark and sarcastic, for sure you chose well.” Jinki comments as he grants the kid’s request and holds him on his hip. “Are we late ?”

“Not at all, the teacher was about to tell the rules and Minho is busy putting make up on one of the children. Taemin, you’re old enough to walk by yourself so get back on your feet. Uncle is old you know.”

“Oh really ? Taeminnie, let’s show your dad I’m not old. Let’s race !”

“Yeeeeeeees !”

The boy keeps screaming as he’s being put on the ground and starts running towards the school, followed by a giggling adult losing black feathers on his way. Remaining alone in the parking lot, Jonghyun and Kibum roll their eyes and laugh together, as the latter closes the car and pushes the trolley. Led by the eldest one, both men peacefully reach the building and head directly to the kitchens where a fridge was emptied beforehand to welcome the cake. Carefully, they place it in the cool and finally join the only lively classroom in the whole place.

The room is small, for it’s made to welcome only six children, but it’s nicely arranged. The desks are gathered to make one big table with six chairs around it, two on each side so students sit by pairs. The last side is empty but overlook the board so it would have been stupid to place people here. In a corner, there are a few small shelves filled with books for every age, and comfortable couches and mats on the floor ; Kibum smiles, remembering his own hometown’s preschool that had a similar calm space in each classroom.

But the place is far from being calm at this moment, half a dozen of kids expressing their joy and excitement by running here and there, making the most of their costumes. Only one is sitting without moving, and the horned man holds on his laughter when he sees his tall best friend so focused on the white skull he is painting on the kid’s face. Minho is so busy he doesn’t even notice his friends arrived, but the latter surely notices his costume : a well-done monster of Frankenstein, with old rags as clothes, scars drawn on random spots of his body and fake nut and bolts popping out of his head and neck.

“Good evening, you must be Mr. Kim ?” A young man dressed as an enchanter with night blue clothes welcomes Kibum with a bow and a smile. “I am Mr. Byun, teacher to this little bunch of kids.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, I think you met my partner once ?” The other man returns the greetings. “He picks Taemin up sometimes.”

“Oh, yes. I had to speak with him once because his nephew had fought a little that day. But let’s not talk about school tonight, we’re here to have fun after all !”

“That’s right, and I’m done with everyone’s makeup !” Minho speaks in as he approaches the men talking while wiping his hands. “Look at you, how comes you’re always giving your utmost with Halloween costumes ?”

“Halloween is my time of the year, dear.” Kibum laughs, giving his friend a hug. “I see you’ve been busy, did you help every kid ?”

“Yup ! They came with only their costumes in a bag so everything was done here. How long did we take to get everything ready, Baekhyun ?”

“Two hours I would say.” The teacher replies, glancing at the window while the newcomer gets surprised at the sudden informal talk. “But the sun is setting now so we should get started.”

Saying this, the young man claps his hands a few times to gather the six kids, who immediately stop their races and games to sit on their respective chair — Jinki, who sneakily joined his boyfriend’s side, shows him how each chair has a name written on its back. The two couples remain quiet as they watch Baekhyun explain the rules to respect once they will be outside for their sweets hunt. All children are looking at him, paying attention and showing their best side. Jonghyun and Minho can’t help but stare at their son with pride, although Taemin isn’t that calm and silent when they’re home.

When the teacher is done, Kibum starts moving as he expects the hunt to start, but he’s surprised by a language he doesn’t know. Looking up with raised eyebrows, he realizes Baekhyun is repeating himself while looking at a particular kid dressed as a ghost — quite tall for his age, his doe eyes staring at the adult’s lips.

“This one is Yukhei.” Minho slightly leans on to whisper to his best friend’s ear, Jinki listening as well. “He is from Hong Kong but he arrived only three months ago so he can’t understand Korean  yet, except basics salutations and a couple of questions you ask a teacher during class.”

“I see…” His elder nods. “How old is he ? He’s tall…”

“He’s four years old.”

“You’re kidding ?”

“I was the same when I was his age, it doesn’t really bother me. Jonghyun is bothered.”

“I’m not.” The flaming blue haired man retorts though he keeps looking at the kids.

“So… Kibum told me there are three foreign kids ?” Jinki asks. “Who are the other two ?”

The oldest man just has time to finish his question when Baekhyun switches languages again, this time looking at the boy who chose to be dressed as a particularly notorious clown — Pennywise, character from a not-really-for-children movie. This makes Kibum frown.

“Does he know the clown he’s dressed as ?” He can’t help but ask. “I almost pissed my pants watching that movie and I’m twenty-seven, don’t tell me he knows about it ? What is he, four ?”

“Five, and he only asked me to paint his face like a clown in a horror movie.” His tall friend laughs. “He doesn’t really know what I did to him, but I’m glad you recognized the character. I might have some talent.”

“Sure, Frankenstein. How did he ask, since the teacher is talking to him in another language ?”

“He’s been here for two years now so he speaks a bit more than basic Korean. Enough to ask me something without stuttering ! He’s doing well but he’s already bilingual, he speaks English.”

“That explains why the teacher is speaking in English now…” The crow man wonders. “Why not the kid’s mother tongue ?”

“He is from Thailand, but Baekhyun doesn’t speak thai so. I would love to tell you his name but I can’t memorize it. Taemin calls him Ten, and the other kids too.”

Both men nod and keep listening to Baekhyun, who’s lifting his fingers one after another as he announces the rules to the kid nicknamed Ten. Kibum mentally bets on the next and last kid he will addresses… but finds himself completely wrong. The young teacher crouches before the smallest, and certainly the youngest kid of the group and asks him if he understood what he just told his classmate. The child seems to hesitate but he eventually shakes his head, what makes the adult smile and repeat his words, in English as well. Slowly, using hands gestures as well.

“English again ?” Jinki raises his eyebrows.

“Mark is Canadian.” Jonghyun replies, beating his husband to it. “But he’s only three so even in his mother tongue, it’s still a bit difficult. Even more when he’s also learning Korean.”

“Three years old… is it good for him to be in this class ?”

“More than you think, because since he’s learning two languages at the same time, it’s better for him to be in a smaller class with few other kids who also are in his case, than in a big group with only kids who talk better, if I can say.”

“You got a point.” Kibum agrees. “He’s so cute, look at him pouting while listening…”

“Taemin is taking this habit, he thinks it will work the same with us and we will give him everything he wants.” Minho quietly laughs. “He wanted to have red eyes to go with his costume and when we explained him that he was way too young for lenses, he just pouted, thinking we would give in to him.”

“And then he said that uncle Kibum would let him, so we were mean parents for around ten minutes.” Jonghyun adds, smiling.

“Since the day I bought him an ice cream behind your back, he thinks I would give him absolutely everything without you knowing.” Their friend rolls his eyes with a smile. “I don’t know if he’s smart or a cute dummy.”

Before they can go on with their not so discreet conversation, the four adults get interrupted by Baekhyun clapping his hands once as he’s done with his speech. The six kids get up all together and go to the low coat rail next to the door, putting their jackets on — with their teacher’s permission, they keep it open so their costume isn’t hidden. The couples smile at the way two kids quickly offer their help to their youngest friend, the little Mark struggling to slip his small coat on because of his pumpkin costume.

“We’re ready to go.” Baekhyun tells his fellow adults as he catches his keys. “Kids must stay all together during the whole outing, but I’m not worried, they have no struggle sticking together.”

“We’ll just make sure they don’t run everywhere.” Jonghyun replies. “Do they have bags ?”

“Yes, I bought some. They have each a pumpkin shaped bag so there’s no jealousy !”

“Excellent.”

Following the teacher’s instructions, Jinki and Minho leave the classroom and wait at the school’s door. While Jonghyun and Kibum will bring up the rear, the six children catch their respective bag and line up by pairs, holding hands — this cute show causes a nervous giggle from the Hades-dressed man.

“Don’t forget, while we’re outside, you keep your friend’s hand in yours !” Baekhyun reminds the kids before letting them leave the classroom two by two, pretending to count them to keep the habit. “Taemin and Jongin, check ! Taeyong and Mark, check ! Yukhei and Ten, check ! We’re free to go.”

The last two adults follow them, switching the lights off, and the whole group is finally heading to their mischievous sweets hunt.

__________________________

Half an hour passed and the streets are full of children wearing various costumes, their adult relatives not always playing this game but showing their involvement in other ways. For sure, the joyfully spooky group wandering with five grown adults disguised for the occasion and six kids blathering around them draws people’s attention. Among them, Jonghyun and Kibum definitely catch a few children’s eye, to the point they even took pictures with perfect strangers… making their own bunch of monsters jealous.

But these little mishaps are quickly forgotten as the pumpkin shaped bags are getting filled more and more by time passing. People opening their doors always come with their hands full of sweets, some with homemade pastries containing pumpkin or lollipops with ghosts, bats or spiders shapes. What makes the school’s group more special is the way three voices stand out when shouting the famous trick or treats, their respective accent or light pronunciation mistakes easy to hear. It only moves whoever they visit to ask for their sweet treasure, the cute little Mark often getting an extra piece.

But night is falling and it becomes darker outside, which forces the teacher to gather his students and keep them around to always have an eye on them. If they were given some freedom at the beginning, though they were well watched, it isn’t possible anymore and Baekhyun earns some pouts and whines in return. Fortunately, a simple stare from him added to Jonghyun and Minho’s quiet, disapproving look is enough for all children to stop any attempt of protesting. It is announced that they will resume their hunt for twenty more minutes before heading back to the school, and it’s Kibum who soothes the sudden tensed atmosphere.

“Kids, what’s with those faces ?” He asks, crouching to be at their eyes’ level. “It’s like a race, isn’t it ? Let’s gather as many sweets we can within twenty minutes, then you will all be rewarded by the biggest cake you’ve ever seen !”

“Cake ?” Yukhei’s eyes seem to light up as he perfectly understood that word.

“Yes, a cake I made especially for you, but it grew a head on our way to the school ! What if we spend too much time outside and it grows legs ? And runs away ?”

“Oh no !” Jongin and Taemin cry out, making the adults giggle since they’re the oldest children in the group, yet the most oblivious about the trick.

“See ?” Jonghyun smiles while he leans on to wipe some dirt on his son’s cheek — how did he even get it ? “We must be fast if we don’t want the cake to escape. So no more talking, it’s wasting time ! Go, fetch some more candies !”

The previous disappointment makes space for a whole new excitement, five little heads bouncing away as they start running to another house. Despite him calling them back to respect the rule, Baekhyun finds himself completely out of the picture ; as he follows them close, he’s joined by Minho who tends to have a well-needed authority on all these kids. The only child who doesn’t follow is Mark, the boy holding his bag of candies with both his small hands and yawning.

“Are you alright, sweetheart ?” The Hades-dressed man asks him, making the kid look up at him with innocent eyes.

“You okay ?” Kibum asks in his turn, choosing English and pointing at the bag. “Want me to hold this ?”

“Ho’d me pwease.” Mark answers as he stretches his arms towards the horned man and drops his treasure.

Surprised at first, the adult hesitates but is quickly defeated by the child’s adorable pout ; instead of taking him in his arms, he crouches and lets Jinki place Mark on his shoulders.

“Hold there.” The oldest man says as he motions the boy’s hands to the horns. “Don’t let them go !”

Once the kid is safe and resting on Kibum’s shoulders, his little face fitting perfectly between the horns with his chin on the top of the adult’s head, the latter’s boyfriend picks the bag up and puts some fallen sweets inside before the four of them join the group of monsters threatening neighbors with evil tricks and laughters. Although one of the children isn’t with his friends, Taeyong is always making sure to ask for extra candies, showing their younger classmate behind with his polite hand to prove he’s not asking for himself.

The twenty minutes go by rather quickly, neither the kids nor the adults realizing it. At some point, Minho is holding Ten on his back and Yukhei’s hand in his, while the other three are still way too excited to stay still. It’s almost chaos, but the return to school isn’t as bad as it could have been. The five men manage to make the whole group walk back without even telling them it’s the way back. It’s only when they recognize the building’s yellow door and stickers on the windows that they understand.

Before any of them can protest, Baekhyun opens the door and calls each of their name, telling them that to enter they must show their treasure. He pretends to inspect the bags’ content and to hesitate to let some enter… what makes them even more eager to actually go inside. Eventually, they’re all back in the classroom, sitting around the gathered tables and showing each other their finds. During the meantime, Minho and Jinki bring an extra table for all adults to fit — though they must sit on the floor since it’s quite low.

Within a few minutes and before some of the kids can start bickering about their respective amount of candies, their improvised dinner arrives on the table and leaves them in awe. It’s only a few sandwiches, but cut in pieces that form the shapes of several Halloween creatures and objects — pumpkins, bats, witches’ hats or ghosts. The flavors are different to suit everyone’s taste, and both kids and adults don’t need to be asked twice before they start devouring whatever is under their reach.

The whole table is a joyful mess of chit-chat and sharing of food among the children ; Taeyong keeps grabbing new pieces of sandwiches and gives them to his friends before taking one for himself, which touches the adults’ hearts. So young and already so caring… while Taemin is literally kneeling on his chair and almost throwing his body on the table to catch what he wants, to the despair of his parents.

“Are you behaving like that at home ?” Minho frowns at him, making his son immediately sit properly and offer both his open hands so his father can give him the sandwich he wants. “That’s better, eat well. Babe, what do you want ?”

“I’m saving myself for later, don’t mind me.” Jonghyun smiles, though he blushes at the way he’s called by his husband in front of so many people. “Eat, I’m waiting for the cake.”

“Yah, will you ask me what I want ?” Kibum suddenly teases his boyfriend, the latter immediately straightening up and swallowing his own food. “No, Jinki, I’m kiddi��”

“There, a whole plate for you !” Jinki offers him a few pieces at once and pouring water in his glass. “Want more, baby ?”

“You asked for it, why are you even blushing.” The tallest man laughs heartily, nudging his best friend whose face turned red.

“Can I have ?”

Mark’s sudden intervention as he pokes Kibum’s arm and points at a sandwich is welcomed with quite a relief from the latter. The horned man immediately grants the kid’s request and makes sure to give him all the attention he needs to forget about his annoying friends — sometimes he hates himself for indeed asking for it and not owning up to what he’s done. He’s so sweating after a few minutes that he makes the huge mistake to remove his headdress and scares the youngest children, what obviously is another occasion for him to be kindly mocked by his friends.

He finds a way to escape and breathe some fresh air when no more sandwich can be seen on the table and it’s thus time for dessert. As he stands up and heads to the kitchen, Jinki following him to lend a hand and stealing him some kisses to make up for earlier, all kids pile their plates up and put all rubbish in one, just like they’re taught at the canteen. As soon as they’re done, they can’t help but stand gaping with their eyes sparkling, when the trolley with the cake finally makes its entrance.

In fact, it’s the biggest cake they’ve ever seen ! And just like Kibum said, there is a big head on the top !

“It didn’t grow legs !” Taemin shouts with his tiny, excited voice as he applauds, imitated by his classmates.

“No, it didn’t !” Jinki smiles. “That’s because you went fast earlier, it didn’t have time. It takes almost an hour to grow two legs !”

“Woah, that’s long !” Jongin widens his eyes and stares at his own legs. “Mine are short, I think it wasn’t as long.”

As soon as Taemin answers his best friend, adults know it’s a lost case ; they take advantage of the smart-like discussion that has all other kids staring at the two talking, to cut the cake. It’s quite a hard task, for the dessert is big and its creator wants each child to have a similar portion to avoid jealousy. It takes a few minutes but every plate is eventually filled with a big slice of cake, a few sugar paste characters and a part of the white chocolate skull. Naturally, adults get a bigger portion but it doesn’t seem to bother the kids.

They’re too busy covering their chin and cheeks with sugar and chocolate, filling their mouths before they even empty them. Just like them, Jonghyun is not hiding himself behind his “responsible parent’s status” anymore, as he devours the cake like he hasn’t eaten anything in weeks.

“I still can’t reduce his sugar consommation.” Minho sighs, pretending to be out of patience. “How can I make Taemin understand why he can’t eat so much sugar if I have this person doing the opposite ? How ?”

“You’re exaggerating, I only eat candies when he doesn’t look.” His husband retorts, filling his mouth again. “It’s too good.”

“I can grant you that. It’s really good, but damn… must have been long to bake that.”

“Tell me about it !” Kibum laughs. “I got up at eight to do the groceries and started baking right after I got home. I’ve been in the kitchen all day long, it’s a relief that Jinki came back from work early.”

“You were almost done when I came to help.” The latter smiles, rarely comfortable when being praised. “My part was only the decoration.”

“It’s a success, that’s for sure.” Baekhyun comments, showing the kids. “Though I don’t know if we’ll finish it today. Do you mind if we keep it in the fridge and I’ll serve the rest tomorrow for dessert ?”

“Of course I don’t ! It’s better here than at my place, we’re supposed to be on a sugar diet.”

“Teach Jonghyun, please.”

Minho’s comment was welcomed by a gentle hit on his shoulder, his husband frowning and his cheeks filled with cake — which made the whole scene laughable. All adults keep talking, giving the children a bit of freedom as they’re done eating ; they wander around the classroom, playing with the available toys or digesting in a calm way. It was quite a big day for them, tiredness starting to make its presence felt as the clock shows half past eight.

It’s at around that time that the kids’ parents are supposed to come fetch them, and Baekhyun keeps alert to hear the intercom. As a way to wait and also to thank the four men for their help, he offers them a cup of coffee to finish this great dinner. Minutes flow by, the teacher occasionally standing up to go to the front door, letting a parent — or two — enter and come to the classroom. Jonghyun, Minho, Kibum and Jinki receive a lot of thanks for their volunteer job, letting Taemin’s parents know that he is always welcomed at their place for a sleepover.

The room is slowly getting empty, and while Jonghyun is holding his son against him, the latter feeling sleepy and sucking on his thumb as he’s being rocked, the other three men help with the cleaning. Taeyong is the last kid to leave and only Jongin remains since he’s sleeping at his best friend’s home tonight. Once everything is as new, more or less, it’s time for everyone to go home and get a well deserved rest. Minho struggles a bit to get Taemin dressed with his coat, the boy half sleeping in his other dad’s arms and not really responsive.

When they’re all warmly dressed and standing in the hallway, Jonghyun holding his now asleep son and his husband keeping the other boy’s hand in his, Baekhyun respectfully bows to express his gratitude.

“The kids really enjoyed this little party.” He says. “It wouldn’t have been possible without you so I thank you with all my heart. They’re working so hard during school days, I’m glad they could have this break for such a good occasion.”

“There is no need to thank us.” Jinki answers, smiling. “We had fun too.”

“They’re all adorable, it was nice being here.” Kibum nods. “Don’t hesitate if you ever need help again, I’m not sure we can be available but you can always ask.”

“I will. And I might see you again, if you ever come for Taemin at the end of a day ?”

“Certainly !”

“We will go, now.” Minho says, a tint of mischief in his eyes. “Should we expect another little party once we get closer to Christmas ?”

Laughing, Baekhyun puts his finger against his lips to keep the secret, before he leads his guests to the back door. With one last goodbye and bow, they separate and head to the parking lot. Taemin and Jongin get in the first car, sitting well in their car seat — there is always a spare one in case — and the adults hug each other.

“Thanks for coming.” Jonghyun says as he hugs Kibum. “It was really good, you didn’t have to do so much though.”

“It was my pleasure, don’t worry.” The other man winks at his friend. “And I was sure it wouldn’t only please the kids so I’m proud.”

“Do you want to come over this Saturday evening ?” Minho asks. “It’s been a while since we had dinner together.”

“Hmm… Alright, but I’m bringing the dessert.”

“That’s fine with me !”

“Perfect. Go, you’ll catch a cold, standing here. See you, text me when you’re home.”

“Yes dad.”

Shaking his head, the tallest man gets in the car, imitated by his husband who takes place behind the wheel. Both Jinki and his fiancé get in their and they leave all together. On their way, Kibum looks at the few pictures he took on his phone during the whole evening, never missing an occasion to make precious memories with his nephew — and tonight, with five other kids he kinda wants to see again sometimes.

“I will send this one to Mr Byun.” He says, showing a picture of all kids with their treasure to his boyfriend when they stop at a red light. “It would be great if he can hang it in the classroom.”

“Send it to Jonghyun too, he will like it.” Jinki smiles, hitting the road again once the light turns green. “Did you have fun ?”

“Yes, lots of fun. You didn’t talk much, though.”

“I enjoy things rather quietly, you know that. But I will certainly come forward if we’re being invited again. These kids are really kind.”

“Did you see how the little one always came to me ? I thought I was going to melt.”

“Does it make you want to have a child of your own ?”

“I’ve wanted one for a while, even since Taemin arrived in our life… But let’s get married before, okay ?”

“Of course, love. And until then, we might see these five again for Christmas… who knows ?”

“Who knows…”

Smiling, Kibum keeps looking at his phone during the whole way back. Even when they get home, he tells his fiancé that he will join him in the living room later, as himself goes to his room. There, he takes his tablet and stylus, sending himself the picture of the children and opening his favourite editing application. Meticulously, he decorates the sober photography by drawing Halloween ornaments here and there, without making it too overbearing.

He makes sure to write each kid’s name above their head or under their feet: Taemin the vampire, Jongin the skeleton, Taeyong the cute Darth Vader, Ten the terrific but adorable Pennywise, Yukhei the ghost and Mark the little pumpkin. He then notices the perfect empty space on top of the picture.

There, after a long reflection, he finds the words he wants. After he put the date in the bottom right-hand corner, he writes a title in a funny font that suits the occasion : “A super spooky night”.

End

[strangermarvelss]

mission report- b.b | part 1 |

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader 

Summary: Bucky is assigned to be fake married to Natasha on a mission. Given their history, you’re not happy about the idea.

Word Count: 2.2k+

Warnings: angst, swearing, alcohol, semi-nudity, you may not like Natasha after reading this

A/N: idk why but this idea randomly popped in my head at work and I really liked it. enjoy!- sava

Silence filled the air following Nick Fury’s mission details. Your attention was focused on the empty space on the table in front of you, trying to process why Nick would even suggest such a thing. Just the thought of what was about to occur made your skin crawl and tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

The mission was simple. Distract the H.Y.D.R.A agents and subtly get information out of them. The complicated part of the operation? Nick wanted people everyone in pairs, acting as girlfriends/boyfriends. One pair would be interacting with the agents directly, while the others would be there as backup. Wanda and Vision, which wasn’t a problem, Clint and Maria, You and Steve,… and, the one that made your stomach churn, Bucky and Natasha.

“Me and...Nat? As a couple? Why that pairing, if I may ask?” Bucky asked, crossing his arms as his eyebrows furrowed at Nick. You flinched at the nickname he gave her, but at least your own boyfriend found the pairing for the new mission as weird as you did.

“Because Mr. Barnes,” Nick began to say, pulling up a hologram that disclosed more information about the mission before everyone’s eyes. Your eyes darted to the hologram, avoiding everyone’s gaze as you tried your best to focus on the information. “You and Ms. Romanoff are some of our best agents. Ex-assassins and all, we need to get this intel from these last remaining H.Y.D.R.A agents, who will be at this event. And I’ve picked you two to do that, all in a disguise of course,” he finished.

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to send Steve as Natasha’s ‘date’,” Bucky asked, his voice growing agitated. Given Bucky and Natasha’s history, you understood why he didn’t want to go through with being her pretend boyfriend for the night, because being her actual one was hell for him years ago. It was one of the reasons you didn’t want that happening either. 

You weren’t a stranger to feeling insecure. There were millions of pretty girls around the world and, fro some reason, Bucky chose you, a plain jane girl who just so happened to know how to kick some ass. Natasha, on the other hand, could kick your ass and several more, all while managing to not even break a sweat and ruin her complexion. She was beautiful and talented, a dangerous combination which meant you couldn’t keep up. It managed to make you weaker on the inside than you already were.

“Trying to disguise Steve Rogers, also known as ‘America’s Golden Boy’, isn’t as easy as you think, Barnes. He can’t just wear a baseball cap and a pair of glasses like he did back in D.C, especially to an event like this,” Nick quipped back at Bucky, snapping you back into reality. 

“But what if Bucky is recognized through his disguise because of his past with H.Y.D.R.A? Wouldn’t it make sense to use someone like Wilson or Barton, in a case like that?” You asked, annoyance laced in your voice. You could see out of the corner of your eye that Bucky’s face fell slightly, his eyes averting away from your gaze. 

Nick turned to look at you, his expression one of pure anger. Constantly pushing him during meetings was not something he liked, and to say we had gone too far was an understatement. “Is there a problem, Ms. Y/L/N?” He asked, raising his brows.

You bit the inside of your cheek, keeping your remarks at bay. You shook your head and flashed him a fake smile. “No, no problems at all,” you told him. Nick finished giving everyone the final details and waved everyone off. You jumped from your seat and were the first one out of the conference room, running down the hall and towards your quarters.

You and Steve stood at the bar at the event, ordering drinks for yourselves. You were only allowed two drinks per person as you needed to look like you belonged to the event, but you needed to be sober enough to relay any information that you received during the mission. If you had to witness Bucky being Natasha’s fake boyfriend, you definitely needed alcohol in your system.

“Everyone’s coms working?” Steve asked over the coms. Everyone answered almost immediately and he nodded, extending an arm out to you and escorting you towards the table Nick arranged for the two of you to sit at. 

As you sat down, you saw Bucky and Natasha sitting two tables away, her brunette wig resting nicely on her head, looking almost as if it weren’t a wig. As apart of the mission, Nick requested that Bucky cut his hair for his disguise, as his prior hairstyle was too recognizable on him. His new hairstyle was a typical one for men in now-a-days, almost matching Steve’s, gel mixed within his gorgeous brown locks that styled it upwards. With his hair looking like that on top of the fitted navy blue suit he was wearing tonight and the white gloves given to him to hide his metal arm made your heart beat faster just taking in the sight of him.

Damn he looked amazing tonight.

Your face fell and your turned away from them, trying to focus your attention on something else. You felt a hand wrap around your arm and you looked up to see Steve flashing you a sympathetic smile. Natasha was his friend, but so were you. Hell, you were dating his best friend, and seeing you so upset about the current situation made him feel bad. He also knew that you were insecure and you let it get the best of you at times, he being the only one on your teammates knowing that little fact about you. That doesn’t mean people didn’t have their suspicions. 

Across the room you spotted your best friend Wanda and the love of her life Vision talking, Wanda wearing a beautiful red, floor length dress and Vision wearing a classic black tux in his human form for his disguise, and Clint and Maria sitting three tables away. Clint was wearing a red suit jacket with a black bow tie and a white undershirt matched with black slacks, and Maria was wearing a sparkly navy dress that reached to her calves. Everyone looked so great tonight, even Steve, who was wearing a black, velvet suit jacket with a black bow tie and a black undershirt, along with black slacks. 

But not you. You wanted to be better than great. You stepped it up a notch. You were sporting a long, floor length, black dress, that came out in an almost a-line style look, with silver decals that came up from the bottom and reached up to the waist. Your neckline was a plunging v-neck, showing off major cleavage. You had to buy that special double-sided boob tape for this event, which you never thought you’d do. Even for smokey eye and brows were perfect tonight. You even wore the diamond earrings Bucky bought you for your one year anniversary. Everything else was perfect about tonight, except for the fact that you couldn’t spend your night with your boyfriend. 

“Eyes up people. The agents just made their way into the ballroom,” Nick said in the coms. He was on the upper level of the venue, dressed in a curly afro wig, which looks better than how he described it before, and a pair of sunglasses along with a simple black and white suit, so he didn’t draw too much attention to himself. People might think he’s being pretentious with the sunglasses inside, but Tony does it all the time, so why can’t he? 

“One more thing. Barnes, Romanoff, you two look like you’re here on your first date rather than two people who are supposed to look like they’ve been together for a while. Try and play your parts, alright?” Nick whisper-yelled into the coms. You sipped on your drink as you listened to him, anxiety coursing through your veins. 

You felt Steve’s grip on your thigh tighten as he reached with his free hand to mute his com for a moment. “Nothing bad is goi-,” he began to say, but you were distracted by your worst nightmare happening right in front of your eyes.

Bucky’s hands were cupping Natasha’s cheeks, careful not to ruin her makeup or to ruin her wig. He slowly leaned into her, his lips softly brushing against her and began to move in sync with one another, causing the people at their table to cheer them on. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she wove her fingers in his hair, tugging slightly. The kiss was practically all tongue and teeth, that could even be seen from a distance.

Your entire world began crashing down before you. The only things moving around you were Bucky and Natasha as his lips moved from hers to her neck, planting soft kisses and nibbles on the base of her neck, the exact thing he would do to you back at the compound. 

You couldn’t breathe. You were struggling for air. You knew being apart of this mission under these circumstances was a bad idea, but you didn’t really have a choice, especially after Nick got angry with you after you questioned him in front of everyone.

You rose from your seat abruptly, turning your com of and placing it in front of Steve on the table. You tried to squeeze by people, but you felt Steve’s hand wrap around your wrist. Your chin began to wobble as you turned to look him in the eye, his blue orbs full of sympathy and pity.

“Y/N, don’t-,”

“Tell Nick I’m sorry, but I really can’t be here and torture myself while that’s going on just a few tables away,” you cut him off as you nodded your head in Bucky’s direction, your voice breaking throughout your sentence. You broke free of his grasp and squeezed by the chairs that sat at your table, making your way around to the front of the venue as quickly as you could but without making too much of a scene.

As you exited the building, you let the breeze hit your face hard, but not really feeling anything of it. You looked around for a cab, but thought about all the shit you would be met with once everyone else arrived back at the compound. You weren’t ready to face everyone after what just happened, especially Nick and Bucky. You were most likely going to lose your job because of your actions and your boyfriend because of past feelings that arose between him and Natasha, all in the span of a night. You don’t just kiss someone like that if you’re just acting. 

Just across the street, you saw a fancy hotel begging to become your new safe haven, at least for the night. You walk over to the crosswalk and quickly make your way over, walking into the lobby and right up to the front desk. You took your card out and asked for a room, trying your best to keep your tears from falling out of your eyes. You could see the pity in the worker’s eyes as she helped you get a room, but at this point, you truly didn’t care anymore.

You took your keycard from the lady and went to the elevator, pushing the button and watched the doors close. You were thankful that you were alone in the elevator, because that’s when you were willing to let a few tears slip down your cheeks, effectively ruining your makeup that was perfect before that shit went down.

You exited the elevator and moped to the room number you were given. As you open the door, you were welcomed with a large, king sized bed that you were so glad to see. Unfortunately, you looked up to see that your view was of the venue across the street where everything had just happened. You went over to the window and pulled the curtains shut, not wanting to be reminded of him or her or this night any longer.

Reaching behind you, you grabbed the zipper of your dress and let it pool at your ankles, leaving you in just your underwear. You went to the bathroom and grabbed one of the complementary robes and wrapped yourself in the soft fabric.

As you climbed into bed, your thoughts went back to Bucky, how he kissed Natasha just like he would kiss you. He didn’t even bother to compliment you on how nice you looked for the event, never once talking to you, and after all that effort you put into looking good for not only the event but for him for some potential fun when the two of you got back home, before...the kiss happened.

 You felt a pang in your chest, an all too familiar feeling that you’d been feeling within the recent hour. You buried yourself under the comforter and began to cry. Bellowing into the pillow, probably ruining the expensive object with your makeup filled tears, all in an unfamiliar hotel room because you couldn’t bear to see the person that supposedly loved you. 

Bucky taglist: @buckybarnesappreciationsociety 

Permanent taglist: @amillionfandoms-onlyoneme , @multireality , @thefridgeismybestie , @httpmcrvel , @lanilovepsychos , @vesper-lou , @ssweet-empowerment , @jadalecki-jackles , @crazybubblegumgurl , @ria132love  , @my-beautiful-wings-blog 

[princessasmosprincess]

Last minute DIY costumes that aren’t totally BASIC

(ok maybe some of these are basic, but they’re more than just throwing on a random dress from your closet and taping a social media logo to it):

Many of the Studio Ghibli movies have characters with relatively simple costumes like

Kiki from Kiki’s Delivery Service

Chihiro from Spirited Away

Sophie from Howl’s Moving Castle.

 Pretty much any anime school boy.

School girl costumes can be a bit trickier (but they’re still doable last minute) because the uniforms can all be so unique but that’s not usually the case with boys’ uniforms. If you want to be recognizable, choose a character with some defining feature, be it brightly colored hair or a distinctive prop. Take Light Yagami, for example:

It’s just a tan jacket, red tie, white shirt, and dark brown pants. Add a Deathnote and you’re good. You could even skip the tan jacket if you wanted to.

Tuxedo Mask from Sailor Moon

 This costume would be easily simplified. He doesn’t need all of the buttons or the white vest and bow tie to be recognizable.

MC from Mystic Messenger

*this art is not mine*

You basically just need to follow the color scheme on this one (mostly dark blue, beige, black, and gray) and wear bangs in front of your eyes. These aren’t even all of her outfits. Jaehee and Rika would also be pretty simple to make costumes for too. The guys are a bit more complex but Yoosung, V, and Jumin are doable in such short notice.

Disney Favorites:

Lilo

Kim Possible

Could do this as a couple’s costume too. Ron wears the exact same thing (not a belly shirt though).

The Darlings and Peter Pan

Wendy or Peter are the easiest to get away with if you’re just dressing up without a group.

Alice

Belle (blue dress)

Ariel (silver dress)

It was hard to find a good picture of this one but you get the idea. A bright red wig ties this costume together.

I think Eric would be the easiest prince costume if you’re making it last minute.

Any of the main Gravity Falls characters

I think they’d all be pretty recognizable alone. Especially the Twins and Stan. My sister dressed as Mabel a few years ago. All we had to do for the costume was paint the shooting star on a pink sweatshirt from Walmart and everyone (at least all of the kids) knew who she was, even when she didn’t have the book.

Marco Diaz and Star Butterfly

I actually did a simplified version of Star a couple years back (same year my sister went as Mabel). I wore black converse with striped socks (could have worn boots though) and a blue dress with a pink squid that a safety pinned to the front. Devil horns were easy to find but I didn’t have a real wand. Marco just wears a red hoodie over a white t shirt and black pants. Star is easy to dress as by yourself, so I would skip solo Marco if you want people to know who you are.

Here’s my Star costume

Any of the main characters from Phineas and Ferb

Doofenshmirtz and Vanessa are both not pictured but they would be easy costumes to make too. It would be fun to do Candace and Vanessa together.

Sharpay and Ryan

Basically any combination of flamboyant, color-coordinated, early 2000′s fashion would work for this. Give Ryan a hat and you’re good to go.

Troy and Gabriella (you could probably get away with Troy by himself if you did the basketball uniform)

Will Turner

I think any of his incarnations would be pretty easy.

Newsies (film) - These are really simple costumes because you just need a button up shirt, dress pants, a hat, and some boots to look the part. For Jack Kelly you’ll need a red bandana and a black cowboy hat, lasso rope optional. 

For Spot Conlon, you’ll just need some red suspenders and maybe a cane (plus his signature smirk) 

My sister and I did genderbent Jack and Spot back in 2012. You can’t see them in the picture but I wore a gray, high waisted pencil skirt with oxfords. 

Other recognizable characters include Mush, Racetrack, Crutchy, Kid Blink, and Skittery.

Non-Disney/Misc.

Johnny Bravo

Pee Wee Herman and Dottie

There’s also a Drive-In version

Dottie wears the most 80s-est fashion you can think of.

Bill and Ted

More violently 80s attire. Bonus points if you bring along So-Crates or Beeth-Oven

Marinette and Adrien from Miraculous Ladybug

Once again, it’s all about the colors.

Ladybug might be hard to do in such a short time but try Chat Noir

Harry Potter – Literally you just need a flannel, white or gray t shirt, jeans, sneakers, round glasses, and a drawn-on scar.

Percy Jackson – Orange Camp Halfblood shirt, jeans, a sword or better yet a normal black Bic pen.

Annabeth Chase – Same as Percy, minus the pen, add a Yankees baseball hat.

Early 2000s pop punk group:  ex. Jonas Brothers, All-American Rejects, Panic! At the Disco

Everyone always does French Kiss, how about just normal Kiss?

It’s so easy. My sister did this one for a Decades Day party in middle school. She won 1st place in the costume contest for the 80s. She just wore a black shirt, black faux leather leggings, and 2 belts from Hot Topic crisscrossed over her shoulders.

Broadway: 

The Phantom - See Tuxedo Mask, just wear a half mask and no top hat.

Christine - White dress/nightgown, maybe add a red rose.

 Enjolras – At the most basic you could do a white shirt with black or brown pants and a GIANT red flag, a red vest or jacket would be cool too. 

Fantine – Just a white dress so this one is better in a group.

Eponine – Rags in earth tones, dirt/soot makeup, newsie hat.

Obviously there are many more costumes than this to choose from but I hope you enjoyed this super long list.